There once more they clambered through the hole in the cave-in and on toward the beginning of the stope.

And there they pointed out their discovery.
A wait for the remainder of that day,--a day that seemed ages long, a day in which Robert Fairchild found himself facing the editor of the _Bugle_, and telling his story, Harry beside him.

But he told only what he had found, nothing of the past, nothing of the white-haired man who had waited by the window, cringing at the slightest sound on the old, vine-clad veranda, nothing of the letter which he had found in the dusty safe.

Nothing was asked regarding that; nothing could be gained by telling it.

In the heart of Robert Fairchild was the conviction that somehow, some way, his father was innocent, and in his brain was a determination to fight for that innocence as long as it was humanly possible.