Bartrow examined the field-glass to see if it had suffered in the scramble. It was unbroken, and he put it back into the case with a sigh of relief.
"If you two had smashed that glass between you, I don't know what I should have done," he said; whereat they all laughed again and took up the line of march for the mine.
That evening, after supper, the four of them were on the porch of the three-roomed cabin, enjoying the sunset. Constance had spoken to her father about the return to Denver, and Stephen Elliott was racking his brain for some excuse reasonable enough to satisfy Bartrow, when a man came up the trail from the direction of Alta Vista. It was Bryant, the station agent; and he was the bearer of a telegram addressed to Constance. She read it and gave it to Bartrow. The operator had taken it literally, and it was a small study in phonetics.
"Shees gaun an got inter trubbel. P. Grims swipt her masheen. Wot shel I do.
"T. Reagan."
Bartrow smiled and handed the message back. "That's Tommie, I take it. What's it about?"
"It's a young woman I've been trying to help. They are persecuting her again, and I'll have to go back as quickly as I can."
"That's bad," said Bartrow; but Connie's father looked greatly relieved, and, filling his pipe, began to burn incense to the kindly god of chance.
After a time, Bartrow asked, "When?"
Connie's gaze was on the sunset, but her thoughts were miles away in a humble cottage in West Denver where she had thought Margaret would be safely hidden from the spoiler.
"I think we'd better go now—to-night. You can flag the train at the mine switch, can't you?"