Who would save her--Mendez?
Lacy?
God, she did not know: and somehow neither of these was the name which arose to her lips, almost in the form of prayer; the name she whispered with a faint throb of hope in its utterance--Jim Westcott.
The big miner was all she had to rely upon; he had been in her mind all through the long ride; he arose before her again now, and she welcomed the memory with a conscious throb of expectation.

Those people back there could not conceal for long her absence from him; if he lived he would surely seek her again.
Her womanly instinct had read the message in the man's eyes; she was of interest to him, he cared; it was no mere ordinary friendliness which would bring him back; no! not even their mutual connection with the case of Frederick Cavendish.

Her eyes brightened, and a flush of colour crept into her cheeks.

She believed in him, in his courage--he had appealed to her as a man.
Suddenly she seemed to realise the yearning of her own heart, her utter faith in him.

He would come, he must come; even now he might have discovered her sudden disappearance, and suspected the cause.