It seemed years since Roy had seen the sunlight, for this night, burdened with suspense, had been endlessly long.  His body was faint beneath the strain, and yet he rode on and on, tired, dogged, stony, his eyes set towards the sea, his mind a storm of formless, whirling thoughts, beneath which was an undeviating, implacable determination.

He knew now that he had sacrificed all hope of the Midas, and likewise the hope of Helen was gone; in fact, he began to realize dimly that from the beginning he had never had the possibility of winning her, that she had never been destined for him, and that his love for her had been sent as a light by which he was to find himself.  He had failed everywhere, he had become an outlaw, he had fought and gone down, certain only of his rectitude and the mastery of his unruly spirit.  Now the hour had come when he would perform his last mission, deriving therefrom that satisfaction which the gods could not deny.  He would have his vengeance.

The scheme took form without conscious effort on his part and embraced two things—­the death of the gambler and a meeting with McNamara.  Of the former, he had no more doubt than that the sun rising there would sink in the west.  So well confirmed was this belief that the details did not engage his thought; but on the result of the other encounter he speculated with some interest.  From the first McNamara had been a riddle to him, and mystery breeds curiosity.  His blind, instinctive hatred of the man had assumed the proportions of a mania; but as to what the outcome would be when they met face to face, fate alone could tell.  Anyway, McNamara should never have Helen—­Roy believed his mission covered that point as well as her deliverance from the Bronco Kid.  When he had finished—­he would pay the price.  If he had the luck to escape, he would go back to his hills and his solitude; if he did not, his future would be in the hands of his enemies.

He entered the silent streets unobserved, for the mists were heavy and low.  Smoke columns arose vertically in the still air.  The rain had ceased, having beaten down the waves which rumbled against the beach, filling the streets with their subdued thunder.  A ship, anchored in the offing, had run in from the lee of Sledge Island with the first lull, while midway to the shore a tender was rising and falling, its oars flashing like the silvered feelers of a sea insect crawling upon the surface of the ocean.

He rode down Front Street heedless of danger, heedless of the comment his appearance might create, and, unseen, entered his enemy’s stronghold.  He passed a gambling-hall, through the windows of which came a sickly yellow gleam.  A man came out unsteadily and stared at the horseman, then passed on.