“Why?” said Bill, turning on him savagely,—­“why? because I warn’t a fool.  Thar was you, winnin’ your way in college; thar was you, risin’ in the world, and of some account to it; yer was an old bummer, ez good ez dead to it,—­a man ez oughter been dead afore! a man ez never denied it!  But you allus liked him better nor me,” said Bill, bitterly.

“Forgive me, Bill,” said the young man, seizing both his hands.  “I know you did it for the best; but go on.”

“Thar ain’t much more to tell, nor much use to tell it, as I can see,” said Bill, moodily.  “He never could be cured, the doctors said, for he had what they called monomania,—­was always talking about his wife and darter that somebody had stole away years ago, and plannin’ revenge on that somebody.  And six months ago he was missed.  I tracked him to Carson, to Salt Lake City, to Omaha, to Chicago, to New York,—­and here!”

“Here!” echoed Islington.

“Here!  And that’s what brings me here to-day.  Whethers he’s crazy or well, whethers he’s huntin’ you or lookin’ up that other man, you must get away from here.  You mustn’t see him.  You and me, Tommy, will go away on a cruise.  In three or four years he’ll be dead or missing, and then we’ll come back.  Come.”  And he rose to his feet.

“Bill,” said Islington, rising also, and taking the hand of his friend, with the same quiet obstinacy that in the old days had endeared him to Bill, “wherever he is, here or elsewhere, sane or crazy, I shall seek and find him.  Every dollar that I have shall be his, every dollar that I have spent shall be returned to him.  I am young yet, thank God, and can work; and if there is a way out of this miserable business, I shall find it.”

“I knew,” said Bill, with a surliness that ill concealed his evident admiration of the calm figure before him—­“I knew the partikler style of d—­n fool that you was, and expected no better.  Good by, then—­God Almighty! who’s that?”

He was on his way to the open French window, but had started back, his face quite white and bloodless, and his eyes staring.  Islington ran to the window, and looked out.  A white skirt vanished around the corner of the veranda.  When he returned, Bill had dropped into a chair.

“It must have been Miss Masterman, I think; but what’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” said Bill, faintly; “have you got any whiskey handy?”

Islington brought a decanter, and, pouring out some spirits, handed the glass to Bill.  Bill drained it, and then said, “Who is Miss Masterman?”

“Mr. Masterman’s daughter; that is, an adopted daughter, I believe.”

“Wot name?”

“I really don’t know,” said Islington, pettishly, more vexed than he cared to own at this questioning.

Yuba Bill rose and walked to the window, closed it, walked back again to the door, glanced at Islington, hesitated, and then returned to his chair.

“I didn’t tell you I was married—­did I?” he said suddenly, looking up in Islington’s face with an unsuccessful attempt at a reckless laugh.