“I don't know what you are talking about,” Dick said drearily. “I didn't run from them. I ran to get away from something.” He turned away irritably. “You wouldn't understand. Say I was drunk. I was, for that matter. I'm not over it yet.”
Bassett watched him.
“I see,” he said quietly. “It was last night, was it, that this thing happened?”
“You know it, don't you?”
“And, after it happened, do you remember what followed?”
“I've been riding all night. I didn't care what happened. I knew I'd run into a whale of a blizzard, but I—”
He stopped and stared outside, to where the horses grazed in the upland meadow, knee deep in mountain flowers. Bassett, watching him, saw the incredulity in his eyes, and spoke very gently.
“My dear fellow,” he said, “you are right. Try to understand what I am saying, and take it easy. You rode into a blizzard, right enough. But that was not last night. It was ten years ago.”