The sun was high and the day was warm, and white, blocky clouds floated in the sky like icebergs in a sea of blue. The gophers played along the trail, and, far above, a hawk, pinioned on motionless wings, spied the plain for the more unwary. The memory of the night before, of the experience of the past thirty-six hours, hid itself behind a mist of unreality; but there was a vacant soreness, a sensation of pain as from some deep wound now healing, a pain so keen that it was part pleasure. A frost-bite and a burn are similar in their nature and their effect, and there is a point at which joy can scarce be distinguished from pain. A sense of loss may in itself become an asset; adversity and rejection, instead of crushing some men down, force them forward and upward. Such a spirit was Burton’s; as he walked along the prairie trail a resolution took shape in his heart that he yet would show “them”—meaning his little world—the stuff of which he was made.
His reverie was broken by a blast of a horn which caused him to jump clear of the roadway. Looking hurriedly around, he saw behind him an automobile with only the driver on board, and the broad smile on the latter’s face indicated his amusement at the young man’s nervousness. Burton’s first thought was that he had been followed; that his bail had been withdrawn, and he would be taken back and thrown into jail. But there was no menace in the kindly eye of the automobilist, as he brought his car to a stop.
“Jump in,” he called, “we are going the same way, let us travel together.”
Burton found no excuse for refusal, and obeyed.
In a moment the car was again in motion, but the driver, a man of fifty or thereabouts, found time to catechize his guest.
“Perhaps you know me. I am Doctor Millar.”
“Why, yes!” exclaimed Burton, looking him in the face for the first time. “I have often heard my father speak of you.”
“Yes?” said the doctor. “And what is your name?”
“Raymond Burton.” The words were out before, with a gasp of surprise, he realised that he had revealed his identity. But it was now too late to recall them, he must face it through.
“Not a son of John Burton’s, of Plainville?” asked the doctor, a new interest leaping into his eyes.