There followed three years of silence, three years of waiting for that
message which never came. As though she had dropped into an ocean of
oblivion, Beth Norvell disappeared. Winston had no longer the
slightest hope that a word from her would ever come, and there were
times when he wondered if it was not better so--if, after all, she had
not chosen rightly. Love untarnished lived in his heart; yet, as she
had told him out in the desert, love could never change the deed. That
remained--black, grim, unblotted, the unalterable death stain. Why,
then, should they meet? Why seek even to know of each other? Close
together, or far apart, there yawned a bottomless gulf between.
Silence was better; silence, and the mercy of partial forgetfulness.
Winston had toiled hard during those years, partly from a natural
liking, partly to forget his heartaches. Feverishly he had taken up
the tasks confronting him, sinking self in the thought of other things.
Such work had conquered success, for he did his part in subjecting
nature to man, thus winning a reputation already ranking him high among
the mining experts of the West. His had become a name to conjure with
in the mountains and mining camps. During the long months he had hoped
fiercely. Yet he had made no endeavor to seek her out, or to uncover
her secret. Deep within his heart lay a respect for her choice, and he
would have held it almost a crime to invade the privacy that her
continued silence had created. So he resolutely locked the secret
within his own soul, becoming more quiet in manner, more reserved in
speech, with every long month of waiting, constantly striving to forget
the past amid a multitude of business and professional cares.
It was at the close of a winter's day in Chicago. Snow clouds were
scurrying in from over the dun-colored waters of the lake, bringing
with them an early twilight. Already myriads of lights were twinkling
in the high office buildings, and showing brilliant above the smooth
asphalt of Michigan Avenue. The endless stream of vehicles homeward
bound began to thicken, the broad highway became a scene of continuous
motion and display. After hastily consulting the ponderous pages of a
city directory in an adjacent drug store, a young man, attired in dark
business suit, his broad shoulders those of an athlete, his face
strongly marked and full of character, and bronzed even at this season
by out-of-door living, hurried across the street and entered the busy
doorway of the Railway Exchange Building. On the seventh floor he
unceremoniously flung open a door bearing the number sought, and
stepped within to confront the office boy, who as instantly frowned his
disapproval.
"Office hours over," the latter announced shortly. "Just shuttin' up."
"I am not here on business, my lad," was the good-natured reply, "but
in the hope of catching Mr. Craig before he got away."