He had borne much in these last years, much misrepresentation, much loneliness of soul.

He had borne these patiently, smiling into the mocking eyes of Fate.

Through it all--the loss of friends, of profession, of ambition, of love, of home--he had never wholly lost hold of a sustaining hope, and now it would seem that this long-abiding faith was at last to be rewarded.

Yet he realized, as he fronted the facts, how very little he really had to build upon,--the fragmentary declaration of Slavin, wrung from him in a moment of terror; an idle boast made to Brant by the surprised scout; a second's glimpse at a scarred hand,--little enough, indeed, yet by far the most clearly marked trail he had ever struck in all his vain endeavor to pierce the mystery which had so utterly ruined his life.
To run this Murphy to cover remained his final hope for retrieving those dead, dark years.

Ay, and there was Naida! Her future, scarcely less than his own, hung trembling in the balance.
The sudden flashing of that name into his brain was like an electric shock.