“Sorry, but I’m not at home,” he said.  There was more than a sulky mood in his tone.  Marion was long since accustomed to the boyish gruffness with which Jack strove to hide heartaches.  This was different.  It froze her superficial cheerfulness to a panicky conviction that Jack had in some manner discovered her betrayal of him; or else he had taken alarm at Hank’s prowling.

“What’s the matter, Jack?  Did you find out about—­anybody knowing you’re here?  Are you beating it, now?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”  Jack still eyed her with that disconcerting, measuring look that seemed to accuse without making clear just what the specific accusation might be.  “How do you mean—­beating it?”

“I mean—­oh, Jack, I did an awful thing, and I came up to tell you.  And Hank Brown knows something, I’m sure, and that worries me, too.  I came out to see if I could meet you, the other day, while Doug stayed with Kate.  And I ran right onto Hank Brown, and he began asking about you right away, Jack, and hinting things and talking about tracks.  He showed me where you had waited behind the tree, and where we stood and talked, and he guessed about my bringing cigarettes, even.  He’s the foxiest thing—­he just worked it all out and kept grinning so mean—­but I fooled him, though.  I made him think it was Fred that had been out hunting, and that I met him, and the package had candy in it.  I had to kid him away from the subject of you—­and then the big rube got so fresh—­I had the awfullest time you ever saw, Jack, getting away from the fool.

“But the point I’m getting at is that he suspects something.  He said you hadn’t been near Quincy, and there must be some reason.  He said you didn’t have any mine located, because you hadn’t filed any claim, or anything.  But that isn’t the worst—­”

“I don’t care what Hank thinks.”  Jack pulled the collar of his coat closer to his ears, because of the seeking wind and snow.  “Get under the cedar, while I tell you.  I was going without seeing you, because I saw you and Hank together and I didn’t like the looks of it.  I was sore as a goat, Marion, and that’s the truth.  But it’s like this:  I’m going back home.  I can’t stand it any longer—­I don’t mean the way I’ve been living, though that ain’t any soft graft either.  But it’s mother, I’m thinking of.  I never gave her a square deal, Marion.

“I—­you know how I have felt about her, but that’s all wrong.  She’s been all right—­she’s a brick.  I’m the one that’s given the raw deal.  I’ve been a selfish, overbearing, good-for-nothing ass ever since I could walk, and if she wasn’t a saint she’d have kicked me out long ago.  Why, I sneaked off and left a lie on her dresser, and never gave her a chance to get the thing straight, or anything.  I tell you, Marion, if I was in her place, and had a measly cub of a son like I’ve been, I’d drown him in a tub, or something.  Honest to John, I wouldn’t have a brat like