"I wrote the full truth to Nell, begged a word from her as a man dying of thirst begs for a drop of water. She never answered the letter. A year later I wrote again, and that one was returned unclaimed."
"You say that the second letter came back unclaimed," spoke Powell, "but, you have no proof that the first one ever reached her. Had you thought of that?"
"Yes. Both letters had my Arizona address on the envelope as well as inside. When I did not hear in reply to the first letter, and it was not returned to me, I communicated with the Dead Letter Office, but no such letter had been turned over to that department. The only logical conclusion was that she did not wish to answer."
The doctor made no comment. Traynor's reasoning was too convincing for suggestions.
"Yet, I made a second effort," went on the boss of the Diamond H. "After that, there was nothing more to do but accept the situation. Now you know the truth, Cuthbert. No other woman will ever fill her place in my life,—but, I cannot keep her out of my thoughts, day or night."
"I'm sorry I spoke, old man," answered the doctor.
"I'm glad you did," replied Traynor. "Now, you understand."
As the shadows lengthened on the prairie the two friends smoked and spoke of other things. And yet—both Traynor and Powell—and many another—had read with the careless glance of the unscathed, the account of a train wreck in Kansas, in which the loss of life had been appalling, and the loss of mail had not been mentioned.