“Poor girl,” he said as he watched her vanishing from sight, “if only she had ever had a show!”

He looked back at Mrs. Dick’s.  Bostwick had ousted him after all, before he could extenuate his madness, before he could ascertain whether Beth were angry or not—­before he could bid her good-by.

Now that the cool of evening was upon him, along with the chill of sober reflection, he feared for what he had done.  He was as mad, as crude as Queenie.  Yet his fear of Beth’s opinion was a sign that he loved her as a woman should be loved, sacredly, and with a certain awe, although he made no such analysis, and took no credit to himself for the half regrets that persistently haunted his reflections.

It would be a moonlight night, he pondered.  He had counted on riding by the lunar glow to the “Laughing Water” claim.  Would Beth, by any possibility, attempt to see him—­come out, perhaps, in the moonlight—­for a word before he should go?

He could not entertain a thought of departing without again beholding her.  He wanted to know what she would say, and when he might see her again.  After all, what was the hurry to depart?  He might as well wait a little longer.

He went to the hay-yard.  Dave had disappeared.  Half an hour of search failed to bring him to light.  On the point of entering a restaurant to allay his sense of emptiness, Van was suddenly accosted by a wild-eyed man, bare-headed and sweating, who ran at him, calling as he came.

“Hey!” he cried.  “Van Buren!  Come on!  Come on!  She’s dyin’ and all she wants is you!”

“What’s wrong with you, man?” inquired the horseman, halted by the fellow’s words.  “What are you talking about?”

“Queenie!” gasped the fellow, panting for his breath.  “Took poison—­O, Lord!  Come on!  Come on!  She don’t want nothing but you!”

Van turned exceedingly pale.

“Poison?  What you want is the doctor!”

“He’s there—­long ago!” answered the informant excitedly, and swabbing perspiration from his face.  “She won’t touch his dope.  It’s all over, I guess—­only she wants to see you.”

“Show me the way, then—­show me the way.  Where is she?” Van shook the man’s shoulder roughly.  “Don’t stand here trembling.  Take me to the place.”

The man was in a wretched plight, from fear and the physical suffering induced by what he had seen.  He reeled drunkenly as he started down the street, then off between some rows of canvas structures, heading for a district hung with red.

At the edge of this place, at an isolated cabin, comprising two small, rough rooms, the man seemed threatened with collapse.

“May be too late,” he whispered hoarsely, as he listened and heard no sounds from the house.  “I’m goin’ to stay outside—­and wait.”

The door was ajar.  Without waiting for anything further, Van pushed it open and entered.