There was grim reminiscence in the old pioneer's smile. "It won't be the first one I've seen that died with his boots on. I'll go and locate your claim for you."
She kissed him good-by, but he came back from the gate to say: "Hold on, here; I don't know your Mr. Jeffard from a side of sole leather. How am I going to identify him?"
"You've seen him once," she explained. "Do you remember the man who sat next to me the night we went to hear 'The Bohemian Girl'?"
"The thirsty one that you and Myra made a bet on? Yes, I recollect him."
"I don't think he was thirsty. Would you know him if you were to see him again?"
"I guess maybe I would; I've seen him half a dozen times since,—met him out here on the sidewalk the next morning. Is that your man?"
"That was Mr. Jeffard," she affirmed, turning away that he might not see the tears that welled up unbidden.
"All right; I'll go and identify him for you."
So he said, and so he meant to do; but it proved to be a rather exciting day at the Mining Exchange, and he forgot the commission until he was about to board a homeward-bound car in the evening. Then he found that he was too late. The body of the suicide had been shipped East in accordance with telegraphic instructions received at noon. When he made his report to Constance, she fell back upon Tommie's assurance, and sent the delayed answer to Bartrow's message, telling him that his friend was dead.