“Know what?” he demanded.

“My—­my husband!” she gasped.  “Stanford Manning—­we are here on our honeymoon.”

She saw him flinch as though from a heavy blow, and put out his hand to the trunk of a tree near which they stood, to steady himself.  He did not speak, but his lips moved as though he repeated her words to himself, over and over again; and he gazed at her with a strange bewildered, doubting look, as though he could not believe his own suffering.

Impulsively Helen went a step toward him.  “Larry!” she said.  “Larry!”

Her voice seemed to arouse him and he stood erect as though by a conscious effort of will.  Then that old self-mocking smile was on his lips.  He was laughing at his hurt—­making sport of himself and his cruel predicament.

But to Helen there was that in his smile which wrung her woman heart.  “Oh, Larry,” she said gently.  “Forgive me; I am so sorry; I—­”

He put out his hand with a gesture of protest, and his voice was calm and courteous.  “I beg your pardon, Helen.  It was stupid of me not to have understood.  I forgot myself for the moment.  It was all so unexpected—­meeting you like this.  I did not think.”  He looked away toward his waiting horse and to the steer lying on the ground.  “So you and Stanford Manning—­Good old Stan!  I am glad for him.  And for you, too, Helen.  Why, it was I who introduced him to you; do you remember?”

He smiled again that mirthless, self-mocking smile, as he added without giving her time to speak, “If you will excuse me for a moment, I will rid your camp of the unwelcome presence of that beast yonder.”  Then he went toward his horse, as though turning for relief to the work that had become so familiar to him.

She watched him while he released the steer, and drove the animal away over the ridge, where he permitted it to escape into the wild haunts where it lived with its outlaw companions.

When he rode back to the little camp Stanford had returned.

For an hour they talked together as old friends.  But Helen, while she offered now and then a word or a remark, or asked a question, and laughed or smiled with them, left the talk mostly to the two men.  Stanford, when the first shock of learning of Helen’s narrow escape was over, was gaily enthusiastic and warm in his admiration for his old friend, who had, for no apparent reason but the wish to assert his own manhood, turned his back upon the ease and luxury of his wealth to live a life of adventurous hardship.  And Patches, as he insisted they should call him, with many a laughing jest and droll comment told them of his new life and work.  He was only serious when he made them promise to keep his identity a secret until he himself was ready to reveal his real name.

“And what do you propose to do when your game of Patches is played out?” Stanford asked curiously.

For an instant they saw him smiling mockingly at himself; then he answered lightly, “Try some other fool experiment, I reckon.”