"No, sir," said Marta. "I just took the name because I liked it. My name is really Marta Sills."

"But it won't be that long," reminded Betty. "You're going to have another name soon. Jo Gary told me so."

"Oh, ho!" laughed Kingdon comprehendingly, while Marta fled in confusion.

"Jo's going to take her with him to Westcott's this morning," said Francis. "They're going to drive over in the buckboard. I think they are engaged."

"He hasn't given her a diamond ring," said Betty. "Every girl who is engaged wears a diamond ring. Doris told me so."

"Speaking of diamond rings," said Hebler, as they all rose from the table, "reminds me that I very carelessly left mine on a table yesterday and I forgot to put it away, or to even see if it were there this morning."

"It will be all right," assured Kingdon. "Every one in the hill country is honest."

"Still you'd better put it away," cautioned Kurt anxiously.

"All right," said Hebler, leaving the room.

"Don't forget we want an early start for town," Kingdon called after him. "I'll go out and look over my car."

Kurt followed him, but lingered on the veranda to light his pipe. While he stood there, Jo and Marta drove past at a smart pace. A few moments later Hebler came to him in great consternation.

"Walters, that ring I was speaking of is gone! I've made a thorough search for it."

When he had assured Kurt that there could be no mistake as to having left it on his table before he started for Westcott's, the foreman said earnestly:

"I am quite sure that I can secure your ring for you, Mr. Hebler. I should like to settle this matter quietly, though; so please say nothing about it to anyone until I have investigated."

"Certainly," agreed Hebler. "I'll go on to town with Kingdon now, and you can be looking about for it."

Kurt hastened upstairs and knocked at Pen's door.

"Hebler has missed his ring—a very valuable diamond, he tells me," he said abruptly, as she came out.

"Oh!" she gasped, turning pale and trembling slightly.

"He left it on his table near the door and just thought of looking for it. I told him not to mention it for the present and I'd deliver the goods. Marta has gone away with Jo; evidently she intends to skip. She'll not get away with this. I am going after them in the car. I shall turn her over to the authorities. You can pack her things and send them after her."

"Oh, wait!" she cried, as he started to go down stairs. "It wasn't Marta. It was I."

"What!" he cried incredulously. "You!"

"Yes."

"When did you take it?"

"On my way to bed last night after I left you. His door was open—the ring on a table near by—in easy reach. He shouldn't have left anything like that around loose."

"I never dreamed of your taking it," he said bitterly. "I thought you had reformed."

She laughed, a little reckless laugh that had a sound like silver bells.

"I don't like that ring either. It's gaudy."

He looked at her with a new thought and hope.

"Are you a kleptomaniac?"

"I should think not! I never take anything unless it is of some value or use."

"Didn't it occur to you that you might be suspected and caught with the goods?"

"No; I thought I knew Hebby and that he was too much of a good fellow to report a loss at first blink. Sort of banal, you know. You don't know much of human nature to suppose a thief could undergo such a sudden reformation. There are no modern miracles like that. Marta is the only one I knew who could change. But she isn't a born thief. I really was trying to be good; but I suppose I will slip and fall countless times—like a drunkard."

"This is the first time since you came here?"

"Absolutely; but to be honest, thieves don't always lie—I've not been so strongly tempted before."

"And you could do it then—right after—"

"After you had done me the great and regretted honor? Well, I didn't yield all at once. I walked right past it with the 'Get thee behind me' pose and closed my door and went to the window and—looked up at the hills and then—something stronger than all my resolutions carried me back to look at it once more. It was all off."

Anger and something else battled in his face.

"Why," she asked curiously, "did you suspect Marta instead of me?"

"I don't know," he said spiritlessly.

"You see Marta has an incentive to keep her straight—an incentive that I lack."

He winced.

"Have you," she asked cynically, "always been so straight that you don't know what temptation means? Have you never wanted anything so much that you—"

"That I wanted to steal? No; not even to steal your affections when I thought they belonged to Jo. I will spare you exposure. When I return the ring to Hebler I will tell him it was found on the floor by a servant."

"Thank you," she said meekly. "If he knew I were here, he'd know who the 'servant' was. What do you propose to do with me now? Return the goods to Bender, or squeal on me to Hebby?"

"I don't know until I have talked it over with Mrs. Kingdon."

"That is very considerate and fair in you," she commended. "Some way I feel confident she will think I should have another chance. You owe me something. 'Kind Kurt,'" she continued lightly, with a return of the flippancy that had so jarred him on their first meeting, "suppose I had been weak enough to accept your proposal last night? I knew my lapses too well and was too considerate of your happiness to say 'yes.' Suppose I had. Would your sense of honor have been equal to the sacrifice of keeping faith with me? No; I see by your face it would not have been. So you see your love—your man's love, isn't great enough for even a thief to consider."

"Give me the ring," he said coldly.

"No; I prefer to return it myself. I'll take my chances with Hebby. Even he isn't as merciless as you. And as I said, his claim is prior to yours. I never expected to take refuge with Hebby! Where is he now?"

"He has gone to the garage. Wait! You shall not go."

He put out a detaining arm, under which she ducked and fled nimbly down the stairs and out to the door. She heard him pursuing, but she jumped on Francis' wheel which stood near and was soon coasting down the driveway to the garage.

"Hebby! Oh—oh, Hebby!" she called to the man sauntering at some distance ahead of her.

"The thief!" he exclaimed as she came up to him and dismounted. "So, at last I've found you!"

"Found me! Well, I like that! Here I come chasing after you and doing the finding myself. Really lost your ring this time, Hebby? Didn't seem like your 'code' to mention your loss to so new an acquaintance. Sort of a breach, wasn't it?"

He flushed shamefacedly, but his discomfiture, short-lived, was succeeded by a broad grin.

"Then it was you who took it! That tall, solemn guy seemed to think he could recover it, but I am more delighted at recovering you than a hundred rings."

"May I keep it, Hebby?"

"You always said you detested that ring—that it was very parvenu and so forth. But what are you doing up here, and how did you get in with these folks?"

"Can't a thief break in anywhere? It's far more surprising how you got in."

"You'll not escape me again. You'll go with me when I leave."

"Thank you, Hebby. I'm through here. Will you do me a favor?"

"You don't deserve favors."

"You never did favor the deserving, you know. Will you tell the 'tall, solemn guy' that you have your ring all right? I'll see you get it. I haven't it on me. But this is the real favor. No one here, except Mrs. Kingdon and one of the men on the place, knows very much about my chequered career and they only know me by my baptismal name."

"Which I'm not sure that I know, Meg. You have so many names."

"I took my own as a perfect disguise. It's Penelope Lamont."

"Fine name. I'll make a note of it for future use. I'll keep your secret if you'll not try to run away again. You haven't told me how you came here."

"I was—apprehended. But I am not on a thief's errand. It's for a reason apart from my other life. You know, Hebby, thieves do have a code of honor."

"You are the one and only thief! I take off my hat to you. Say, how did that tall guy know you had it?"

"He didn't. He suspected someone else. You can have it back, Hebby. It's so garish it puts my eyes out. I didn't want it. I just wanted to steal it."

"Ruling passion, Meg."

"No; you're way off. Here comes the 'solemn guy.' Tell him I found it and returned it to you."

Just then Kingdon drove around the curve.

"Glad to see you again, Miss Pen. I thought you had forsaken us. I see you've made Mr. Hebler's acquaintance. But I must take him away from you for a while."

As Hebler got into the car, Kurt came up.

"Oh, Mr. Walters, I'm happy to say I have my ring. Meg—Miss Lamont saw it and took it for a joke on me. Sorry I mentioned it."

A little wave of remorse swept over Pen for a second as she turned to Kurt and saw the look in his eyes when the two men had driven off.

"He seemed to have an air of proprietorship," he said jealously. "Has he really a legal right to take you away?"

"Looks that way. Mrs. Kingdon thought so. I never could get legal stuff through my head. It was for an offense committed long ago, but not outlawed. There is something I want to say to you. Last night you asked me to marry you. Don't look so afraid of the cars! I am not going to sue you for breach of promise. I wouldn't marry the grandest man living unless he loved me supremely—enough, at least, to overlook the stealing of a ring. Kurt," she added after a pause, "did it occur to you I might have had a reason for stealing that ring? To put you to the test—your love, I mean—before answering you?"

"Pen—"

"Never mind, now. Jo wouldn't have gone back on me if he had been my lover. There's the ideal lover for you. There's one thing I didn't try to steal up here—Jo from Marta. Well, it's all over now, and I am going back—back with Hebby."

"You are not going away with that man," he said hotly. "Mrs. Kingdon arrives to-day. She will find a way out."

"I think not. You don't know Hebby. I think I want to go with him."

"You see," he said looking at her wistfully, "you didn't love me—"

"Then we're quits," she laughed, jumping quickly on the wheel and speeding toward the house.

"The beans are sure spilled now," she thought, when she had gained her room. "I've outwitted Kurt, and I must give Hebby the same treatment, but how can I make my getaway? Hebby in town—and such a small town. They took the racer. The big car is out of commission. Sandy rode to the corral in Kurt's shebang. No horse leaves the stables without Kurt's O. K. Oh, for the wings of a dove! There's my inspiration! I know some better wings than a dove's. I'll telephone Larry and literally fly from here."

She went into Mrs. Kingdon's room where there was an extension telephone and called up Larry at the hotel. Fortunately he was within call.

"Want to do something for me Larry, dear? Hebby is here! I'm in a mix-up as I generally am. No way out unless you'll fly to me up here. I mean it. Inquire the way to Westcott's ranch—the next beyond Top Hill where I am. Land by a big red-roofed barn—only red roof in vicinity. I'll be there at three this afternoon, and be yours forever after if you'll have me. I knew I could count on you. This is really serious, Larry. If you love me, don't fail me."

She hung up the receiver with a sigh of relief.

"To think of falling back on Larry whom I used to consider a lightweight. He is my last ditch, and then I'm off by the overhill and skyville route. In the meantime I'll make some manuscript memoirs to leave behind."

A note to Marta and a shorter one to Jo occupied but a few moments time, but she wrote swiftly and steadily for an hour on a longer one. When she had a bulky package she sealed it and addressed it to Kurt. An explanatory letter to Mrs. Kingdon then followed.

"I'll have to travel light—a beach comber's outfit," she thought as she prepared for departure.

She gave the notes for Jo and Marta to Agatha to be delivered on their return. She had a few moments confidential conversation with Francis, bade the others good-bye and then sped down the road to Westcott's.



CHAPTER XIII

Agatha came out to the driveway to stop the buckboard and deliver the notes.

Marta read the one handed to her as they drove on to the stables.

"What 'tis, honey," Jo asked in alarm, as he reined up and turned to her.

There was a wild, distraught look in Marta's eyes, and her face had suddenly turned very pale.

"Oh, Jo! Pen—"

"Wait!" he cautioned, as Gene came out of the stable.

"Unhook for me, will you, Gene?" he asked.

"Now, Marta, what is it?" he again asked anxiously as they were walking back to the house.

"Read your letter, Jo, and see what it says."

He read aloud:

"DEAR JO: Leaving Top Hill forever by the Excelsior Route. Had to. Never go back on Little Marta. Will see you somewhere, sometime. At four this afternoon, come to Westcott's red-roofed barn and get Francis' wheel.

"Yours, "PENNY ANTE."

"What has happened to send her off in such skyrocket fashion?" he asked. "What did she say to you?"

"Jo, we must find her at once. Let's go to Westcott's the quickest way we can."

"What is it, Marta?"

"That Mr. Hebler who is visiting here, you know," said Marta breathlessly. "Well, he missed a diamond ring. He left it on a table near his door—I saw it. When we came back from our walk last night, I went to Miss Lamont's room. His door was open. A great whopping diamond ring was on the table—and—"

"Yes, Marta," he said encouragingly, as she paused.

"When she found it was gone, she told Mr. Walters and Mr. Hebler that she took it, so as to protect me. That's why she has gone."

"She's a trump! Read me her note, Marta."

"DEAR LITTLE MARTA:

"You must do just as I say. I told Mr. Walters and Mr. Hebler I took the ring. Give it to Mr. Hebler and tell him I left it with you to hand to him. Never do it again, Marta. Jo is worth a whole mine of diamonds. When I am safely and far away, will let you hear from me.

"With Love, "PEN."

"Some girl!" exclaimed Jo. "But she isn't as keen as I thought, or she'd have known you didn't take the ring."

"Jo, do you believe—"

"Shucks, honey! I know you didn't. I wouldn't believe you did if I saw you take it. Here, little girl—"

He stopped, put his arm around her, lifted the little face and kissed the tears from it.

"What's matter with you?"

"Jo, I didn't take it!"

"Don't I know you didn't, honey!"

"It's nice in you to know it, Jo. But—suppose, I had taken it—"

"I'd have given it back and rustled around till I could have bought you the biggest diamond in Chicago."

"Who do you suppose did take it, Jo?"

"I don't know. Maybe he never lost it."

"Wasn't it grand in her to take the blame?"

"Yes," he admitted grudgingly, "but I don't like her thinking you took it."

"But, Jo. Of course she would think it was I, and—I remember now—when I saw that diamond I thought how easy it would be for anyone to lift it, and then when I was in her room, I hardly heard a word she said because I was thinking, 'It's Jo! It's Jo's love that's made me different,' and then I got scared thinking that I might want to take it, and how awful it would have been if I had never met you and loved you. I got up and walked right out of the room so I could be alone and think about you. It must have looked queer to her the way I acted—till she found the ring had been taken."

"I'll see Kurt," said Jo, "and tell him about it, and he will find her."

"What's that sound?" interrupted Marta, looking about her in a puzzled way. "I've heard it before somewhere. Oh, I know! It's an airship."

They looked up and, for the moment, lost all interest in things below.

"Holy Smoke!" exclaimed Jo. "First one I ever saw! Gene said there was one in town a few days ago. Look! It's coming down corkscrew style! It's going to land there by Westcott's!"



CHAPTER XIV

Down the road from the corral, Kurt chugged homeward in his crude little car. He had the manner of one whose heart is heavy, but whose resolution was still invincible.

A strange unaccustomed sound, a faint, far-away buzzing made him glance upward. Two sharp winged points were skimming through the air. He felt a thrill—the thrill of the unknown. He knew it must be one of the craft, foreign as yet to the hill country. In the distance he saw it swirl, loop and maneuver, spiral gracefully downward, skim the earth lightly, rise again and then descend from sight hidden by one of the hills.

In a few moments he saw it ascending again. It passed over him—so high up that it seemed but of bird size.

He was startled—lifted momentarily and dazedly from his plodding existence.

He had read of these ships of the air, but their reality had not been borne in on him until now.

He went on to the house. Three children rushed at him with football fury.

"Attaboy!" he cried, catching up Billy. "What is it?"

"Mother is in town with father and Mr. Hebler. Father just telephoned—"

Kurt had the feeling of something lifted—of help at hand.

"And," continued Francis placidly, "father said you were to take us to town in the big car and we'll all have dinner at the hotel and come back together. And he said to bring Aunt Pen. But you can't now."

"Run up to her room, Francis, and tell her I want to speak to her."

"Aunt Pen has gone," said the boy soberly.

"Gone! When—where?"

"I don't know. She kissed us good-bye and she gave me a letter to give to you at dinner time."

"Give it to me now, Francis."

"No; she said she trusted me, and I told her I wouldn't give it to you till she said."

"Come with me, Francis," said Kurt, drawing him away from the other children. "I want to talk to you as man to man. We must always protect women, you know. Your Aunt Pen went away because she thought it best for her. It isn't best. Your mother is her best friend, and if she had been here, she wouldn't have let her go. If I had the letter, you see, I might be able to find where she had gone. Then I could ask her to come back."

Francis looked up at him oddly and said in his little, old-man fashion:

"Maybe it would be best, but father says that a real man never breaks his word to a woman."

Kurt flushed slightly.

"I take off my hat to you, Francis. You are right."

Not believing that Pen would start out on foot, he went down to the garage. The cars were all accounted for. A visit to the stables proved the same as to the horses.

On his way back to the house, he met Betty, who said to him in a stage whisper.

"Uncle Kurt, Aunt Penny is going to France. She went by way of Westcott's. Is that the way to France? Don't tell Francis I told. She is going to help the French and the Beligum babies."

"Thank you very much, Betty."

This was a clue. She had doubtless started toward Westcott's expecting to get a lift to town. If no one had picked her up en route, he could easily overtake her in the big car, which Gene had now repaired.

"Go and tell the boys to get ready, Betty."

Betty sped gleefully away.

"Oh, Mr. Walters!" hailed Mrs. Merlin, coming from the house, "when you see Mr. Hebler, tell him I put his diamond ring away. I'm awfully forgetful. I—"

"You put his diamond ring away? Where?" asked Kurt faintly.

"It was like this. I couldn't get to sleep last night because a window was rattling in the hall, so I got up and went out to fix it. When I passed by Mr. Hebler's door, I saw his diamond ring on a table near the door. Ain't it awful how careless folks are! I opened a drawer in the table and slipped it in, and I clean forgot all about it till a little while ago. Maybe he's got it on by this time, though."

"All right, Mrs. Merlin, I'll tell him," said Kurt, hastily going in and up to Hebler's room. The diamond fairly blazed at him in accusation as he opened the drawer.

And yet Hebler had told him that he had the ring! He hadn't been in the house after he had said the ring was missing. And why had Pen said she took it? Maybe she had taken that method of returning it.

He went downstairs, pondering over the mystery. This time Marta stopped him, excitedly.

"Oh, Mr. Walters, Jo and I have been looking for you! Miss Lamont didn't take the ring."

"I know she didn't. I just learned, Marta, that Mrs. Merlin saw it on the table and put it away."

"Find Miss Lamont and tell her!" cried Marta in distress. "You see she thought I took it. She had reason to think so—the way I acted. She was protecting me."

"I see," he said despairingly. "I made her think you had taken it."

"Come outside and see Jo."

"Jo," he asked desperately, when he had joined him, "do you know where she is? She has gone. I must know."

"Kurt, you might as well try to catch a piece of quicksilver as Penny Ante, if she don't want to be caught."

"Have you the slightest idea as to where she has gone or where she might have gone?"

"Maybe I could venture a guess. I'll have to know first why you want to know."

Something more compelling than any emotion he had yet known kept down the anger that otherwise would have risen at being thwarted.

"I love her, Jo," he said quietly.

"For how long, Kurt, have you loved her?"

"Since the first night I met her," he said slowly and reminiscently. "When we camped on the trail. She lay asleep in the moonlight."

"Have you forgotten what you warned me against that day I told you about Marta—about marrying a thief."

"I was a simp, then, Jo. I had never been in love."

"Well," pursued Jo, "why didn't you tell her you loved her in the first place? Maybe it would have helped. It isn't much of a compliment to a girl to hang around and not say anything."

"Think, Jo. I supposed until Marta came, that Pen was your girl. I brought her up here to see if she could be reformed for you. I sent you away to Westcott's until I could tell if she were worthy of you."

"Say, Kurt, I am the simp. I never thought of that. She didn't think you really cared. Leave it to me. I'll tell her."

"But where is she? Don't let the boys know, but Betty leaked the fact that she was going to France. I can't think she was in earnest."

Jo whistled.

"I am beginning to get glimpses on a dark subject. I'll bet that is where he is making for, too."

"He? Who?" he asked quickly. "Hebler?"

"Hebler! She'd rather dodge him than you. No; I mean that aviator who landed over toward Westcott's a little while ago. I heard one of those fliers had been in town giving an exhibition. He was down to earth just about long enough to pick some one up. That was what she meant in the note she left for me when she said she was going by the Excelsior route."

"How would she know him, and how would she get word to him to come out here?"

"She told me she spent the day in town—let me see—day before yesterday, I think it was. Said she met a man there she used to know."

"She told me, too, she had been to town, but I thought she was only joking. I didn't believe her."

"There's a lot you could hear about her, Kurt, that you wouldn't believe right off the bat; but it's not me who's going to put you wise. Talk to Mrs. Kingdon about her. You'll not get the chance to interview Penny Ante very soon, I imagine. In the craft she must be traveling in, there's nothing about this ranch that can overtake her, but I'll do my level best. Let me see! She won't go to town. She'll want to keep out of Hebler's reach, of course."

"Why?" asked Kurt. "Do you know?"

"I know more than you do about her. A girl has to have some one to confide in and Little Penny Ante chose me. You scared her out, you know."

Kurt winced.

"They will naturally go in an opposite direction," pursued Jo. "They may fly over to the next station and take the east-bound. I'll take your car."

"No; you take the children to town, and I'll go in pursuit—"

"That'll never do. She won't try to dodge me."



CHAPTER XV

In the little valley by Westcott's, Pen stood waiting and staring upward. At last she heard the sharp sound of an engine and saw the plane describing a sweeping circle. It came gently down, the little wheels rolling along the grass.

"I'm in debt to Hebler," said Larry. "It was only your fear of him that overcame your fear of flying."

Then looking at her, he continued, confidingly, "I wouldn't take up the average girl, Pen, and especially one who owned up to being afraid. But I know you. You'll forget fear in the thrills. All you've got to do is to sit still, hold on and look out on the level. We won't do any swivels; just straight stuff, and you'll be as safe as you would any place."

She put on the hood and goggles and was adjusted to the seat.

"Now where do you want to go?" he asked.

"Anywhere to lose myself. Hebby is in town and so—are others. Let us take the opposite direction and you can land me at some place where the east-bound stops and I can get some more luggage. Then we'll make plans."

"Suits me. First thing we'll do is to have a grand flight. Then I'll leave you at a nice, little, sky-high inn I know up in the clouds. I'll fly back to town, pay my bill, pack my traps and join you by train."

He started the engine. The plane skipped along for a few paces, then arose, it seemed to Pen, to great and dizzy heights. In spite of her instructions she ventured to look down. Everything earthly was disappearing. They dodged the clouds, went above them and then slid down to the splendors of the sunlight. Over the hills at full speed they swept along, Larry's air-wise, lightning-swift sensibilities making naught of change of currents and drafts. Then came the joy and thrill of a sixty-mile straightaway spurt.

It was wonderful, but the most wonderful part of it to Pen was that she had not even a second of fear, although always this thought of being shot up suddenly straight into an unknown realm had been most terrifying.

Up there above the hills and in the clouds, she felt entranced, spiritualized. It was with a feeling of depression that she saw they were spinning down until they hovered over a field, scudding smoothly and slowly along.

"You weren't afraid!" exclaimed Larry triumphantly, as they walked along toward a little inn resting at the base of one of the undulating hills.

"No;" she answered, "only awed."

"Was it anything like you expected?"

"No," she replied.

A man came out of the inn to meet them.

"Halloa, Larry! Too bad I couldn't have had a full house to see. The last tourist left on the train to-day."

"Then you'll have more room for us. This is Miss Lamont, Nat. Mr. Yates, the proprietor," he explained to Pen. "Can you give us supper and put Miss Lamont up for the night? I have to fly back to my hotel. I'll return by train in the morning."

"Sure thing! House is yours."

He showed Pen to a neat little room and told her "supper'd be on in a jiffy."

She sat down dazedly. Presently she was roused to her surroundings by Larry's "Oh, Pen!" from below.

When she came down to the dining-room, Larry's clear young eyes looked at her keenly.

"Not down to earth yet, Pen? I know how you feel. First time I made the sky route, I went off by myself for a day."

"Larry, I can't talk about it yet. I will tell you now why I joined you. I thought I would like to go to France—with you. I thought I might be useful some way, but now—"

"We won't think of plans now. We'll talk it all over in the morning when I am back. You'll be safe here. Nat would as lief shoot Hebby or anyone else who trailed you. Supper's on the table, so come on."

Throughout the meal Larry did most of the talking, Pen scarcely responding. Then he was off, steering in great circles toward town, Pen watching with the quickening of pulse and a renewal of the elation she had felt when taking the air. When he was but a mere speck in the sky, she went up to her little room.

"You'll never look quite so high or so wonderful to me again," she thought, as she looked out on the hills. "It's because I've looked down on you, I suppose—the law of contrast. I learned a great deal up there—in the vapors. I put out my feelers, something I never did before. I see I've always faked my sensations. But my wings are pin feathers as yet. I have to look at everything from a new angle of vision. All my life I've been longing for thrills—real thrills, my own thrills; not other peoples. I had a few little shivers when I was riding to Top Hill that morning; a few more last night—but my first true thrill of rapture came when I was challenging the sky, an argonaut."

It was a hard struggle for Pen to adjust her new self that she had found up in the high altitudes where all the tepid, petty things of life had dropped from her—where she had found the famous fleece, the truth. In the vastness of that uncharted land, like a flash in the dark something had leaped at her. Her dream of a dream had come true. She had learned the great human miracle, the meaning of a love that had the strength to renounce. A god-made love, sweet and strong, conceived on earth, but brought forth on high where the call of destiny had sounded with clarion clearness. She knew now what she had missed; that he was not of the world of miniature men who exact and never return.

She was roused from her visions of the new and radiant world which had been opened unto her by a knock at her door.

"Yes," she answered vaguely.

"There's a man downstairs to see you," said the proprietor.

She was at once alert and on the defensive, thinking of an encounter with Hebler.

"Do you know who he is?" she asked apprehensively.

"He said to tell you 'twas Jo."

Joyfully she hastened down to the deserted office of the little inn.

"Jo, I am so glad it's you!"

"So am I. Come outside and take a walk with me."

"How did you ever track me up here, Jo?" she asked as they walked up a hillside.

"Not hard to track the first skycraft that ever came up to these parts. I saw one land near Westcott's, and I had a hunch it was lighting for you. Then I thought no more about it until things happened that made it up to me to find you. I inquired around and about and found a big balloon had come this way, so I figured this was about your goal for a train."

"Why was it up to you to find me, Jo?"

"Well, Miss Penny Ante, I am a little interested in you, seeing as it was you who brought Marta to me. And I knew you would be interested in knowing Marta didn't take the ring."

"Oh, Jo! I tried to think it wasn't Marta, but—"

"She says she acted just as though she had taken it. It was old Merlin, nosing around the hall, who tucked it away. But the real reason I had to run you down was for my pal. He wants you."

"Why?" she asked. "To apologize? You didn't tell him, Jo—"

"I told him nothing."

"Then he must want me as an ex-sheriff."

"Cut that out, Miss Penny Ante. He wants to find you because he loves you."

"What makes you think so, Jo?"

"He 'fessed up when he found you had gone."

"He didn't love me—not as you love Marta," she reminded him. "It made no difference with you that Marta—"

He made a quick gesture of protest.

"You forget," he said soberly, "that when I met Marta and fell in love with her, I didn't know about—her. Bender had told him about you before he met you, and then he thought you belonged to me."

"Jo, if you had known Marta stole before you met her, wouldn't you have loved her and asked her to marry you?"

"I don't know," he said frankly, "and I don't care about 'might have beens.' I know I love her now and always shall. That is enough."

"Miss Penny Ante," he continued, as she did not answer him, "you don't know Kurt Walters as I do. He is a square man, square as a die."

"Yes, Jo," she said softly. "He is a real man—a square man. I know it now, too late."

"Not too late. Not if you care. Go back with me to the ranch. He has gone to town with the children to meet the Kingdons. Mrs. Kingdon is there, too. They will all be back to-night."

"No, Jo; it's too late."

"Why?"

"Because I gave Francis a letter telling him everything. He might overlook what he did know, but I understand his pride. He'll never overlook the other. He'll not forgive the deception."

"Go to him unexpectedly, Miss Penny Ante. A man off guard, you know. Come back to Top Hill with me."

"No; I am going to wait here until Larry comes back. I must."

"Who is he, and what is he to you?" asked Jo resentfully and suspiciously.

"So you see, Jo," she said, when she had finished a brief account of Larry's entrance into her life, "I can't go back with you. Don't tell anyone but Marta where you found me. Ask her to forgive me for being so stupid about the ring. I'll walk down to your car with you."

They walked slowly without speaking until they came to the inn. She looked at the car wistfully.

"I haven't been in this poor, little old car since that first ride to Top Hill," she said reminiscently.

He made no reply, but got into the car and put his hand on the wheel.

"Jo!"

"Well," he answered in the tone of one balked in his intentions.

"He'll get over it."

"No; men like Kurt don't get over anything like that. I know what it is to love without hope. I am sorry for Kurt. You'll be sorry for him, too, some day."

She had come close to the car, and he looked into her eyes as he said impressively:

"He loved you from that very first night."

"That very first night!" she echoed. "Not surely on that ride from town—from jail to Top Hill! Why, he fairly hated me then!"

"You're not hep to Kurt," he declared. "He said to me in just these words: 'I have loved her since that first night I saw her, when we camped on the trail—when she lay asleep in the moonlight.'"

After making this enlightening remark, he motored away, while Pen stood motionless with the shock of amazement in her eyes.

* * * * *

When Larry returned on the early east-bound, he found Pen on the veranda of the little inn.

"Why, Pen!" he exclaimed. "Is this a stay-up late, or a get-up early?"

"Both, Larry. I couldn't sleep. I am still thinking of our flight up—where I found myself."

"I know," he said comprehendingly. "You have to get away from people and things to do that—to get the right line on yourself; and that is the only place you can do it. But I met a man at the hotel who knows you."

"Not Hebby!"

"No; I dodged Hebby for fear he'd quiz me or follow me. This other man began a cross exam., so I beat it. He said he was from the ranch where you stopped. I asked the clerk when I paid my bill who he was, and he said he was a sheriff, or had been one. Maybe Hebler got him to track you. I dodged his questions so as not to put him wise."

"He isn't a colleague of Hebby's," denied Pen. "He is the foreman of the ranch where I stayed. I think he was there in town to meet the Kingdons."

"He met some people who went out to the ranch, but this man stayed on at the hotel. The night clerk said he would be there until noon to-day. We had better get ready for the next train."

"I am ready," said Pen quietly.



CHAPTER XVI

To the delight of his young passengers Kurt drove at a speed never before attempted when they were with him. At the hotel there was a rallying reunion of the Top Hill family.

"Where is Pen?" Mrs. Kingdon was finally permitted to ask.

"She didn't come with us," said Kurt, grimly enjoying Hebler's quick attention. The children had been previously and carefully coached to make no mention of Pen's departure.

He made an excuse to leave the hotel parlor and went down to the office.

"Is there an aviator registered here?" he asked the clerk.

"Sure there is," replied the clerk proudly. "Larry Lamont. Some flier, too. He's going over to France soon—into the French service."

Lamont! Kurt turned a little pale. "Is he here now?"

"His things are here, but he's out with his aeroplane somewhere."

Kurt breathed a little easier and resolved to remain at the hotel until the aviator should return.

When the rest of the party came through the office on their way to the dining-room, Francis lagged behind and handed Kurt a letter which the latter abstractedly slipped into his pocket.

At dinner he was seated at the end of the table farthest removed from Mrs. Kingdon, so he had no opportunity for a word with her in regard to Pen. As they were going out from dinner she called to him:

"The children are clamoring for a movie. They don't get many opportunities to see one, and I haven't the heart to refuse them their first request after my long absence. So we are all going. Will you come, too?"

"I can't, I fear. I have a little matter of business to attend to, but I will be here after the picture show."

"I imagine we will not be back very soon. Billy always insists on seeing a picture twice at least."

Kurt remained in the office when the others had gone. Presently the clerk said to him: "Here comes Lamont now!"

A slim, graceful-looking young man smoking a cigarette was just swinging in from the street.

Instantly Kurt went forward to meet him.

"Mr. Lamont?" he asked.

"Yes," admitted the aviator warily.

"My name is Walters. I'm from the ranch where Miss Lamont has been visiting. Are you her brother?"

Lamont shook the ashes from his cigarette.

"I beg your pardon," he replied coldly. "I have no sister."

He passed on, leaving Kurt still at sea as to the relationship of the aviator and Pen.

Then he heard Lamont addressing the clerk.

"I want to leave an early call for the first east-bound."

Kurt went out on the street. He could always think more clearly in the open, and he felt that he had much need for thought. Added to his other disturbing emotions was the most stinging one of jealousy. The truth that struck home was the knowledge that the supposed theft of the ring hadn't made him so wretched as the assurance that she loved another—was another's. He hadn't been jealous before—not of Jo nor even of Hebler, but he instinctively felt that this Romeo-like youth whom she had sought was the one who had the first claim.

"He shall not have her!" he muttered when he had walked the streets for some time. "I'll take her from him—from everyone."

He went to the little theatre to tell the Kingdons that he should remain in town all night. Kingdon could drive the car home and Hebler could run the racer.

He walked into the little lobby. The bill boards showed him it was a wild and wholly western scenario, and he felt certain that no less than two performances would satisfy Billy's cravings. He went inside and stood scanning the well-filled house until he located his little party well up in front—children's choice of seats. He started down the aisle. The preliminary pictures of the cast were being shown. On the screen flashed the lines:

THE THIEF or MEG O' THE PRAIRIES By Bobbie Burr

A picture of "Meg O' the Prairies" followed. Kurt turned and walked back to the last row of seats, the only ones vacant.

The theatre was dark. An improvised orchestra was essaying something that sounded like strains of Dixie, Columbia, America and the Star-Spangled Banner combined, and the audience were continually standing up and sitting down, in a state of bewilderment and doubt as to which was the national air.

Then suddenly on the white screen was enacted the regulation, popular style of Western play. Ranch settings, tough bar-room, inevitable cowboys, bandits, Indians, and lovers twain, held the audience enthralled. There were the many hair-breadth escapes, pursuits, timely rescues featuring the one girl, daughter of a ranchman, attired in semi-cowboy regalia, who rode like mad and performed all kinds of wonderful feats, and for whose hand the hero, villain and cowboys hazarded their lives and fortunes. The old, old picture that came with the first film and will last while there are boys and men with the hearts of boys. Look upon it tenderly, promoters of educational pictures and uplifting reels, for it carries a romance never attained in reality and irresistibly appeals to the idealism of young blood and young hearts.

For an instant, when the first picture of "The Thief" was thrown on the screen, Kurt felt a queer sensation as one who intuitively perceives something of danger in the dark. A swift, warning note like a sharp pain struck him.

With tense nerves, he waited for the scenes in which she would appear. All the little well-remembered gestures, the graceful movements, the tender graces which he had been wont to steel himself against were there. They brought him a feeling that was exquisite in its pain. With no outward show of emotion his whole being quivered and throbbed at each appearance of the boyish figure ever recurring on the screen.

Once her eyes, wistful and entreating, seemed to meet his in mute reproach. Then the little theater was lighted, the improvised orchestra renewed its efforts. He went quickly out and stopped at the hotel to leave a note for Kingdon. Again he walked and lost himself in memories, seeing as in a mirror all the incidents that had so intrigued his interest, but which now in the light of his new understanding seemed so very patent.

Suddenly he recalled her letter still unread. That might show some motive for her incognito and explain her arrest by Bender.

He returned to the hotel. The hour was very late. He learned that the ranch party had long since departed and that Larry Lamont had gone to his room.

With a queer little catch of expectancy in his throat, he held the letter for a moment pressed tight in his hand. Then he opened it.

"TO KURT WALTERS, EX-ACTING SHERIFF.

"In taking French leave, I feel that it is due you to inform you who your prisoner really is.

"I was to the stage born. In fact, nearly stage-born, as my mother played her part almost up to the night I made my debut in the great game of Life. My childhood was spent mostly in the flies, and my earliest memories are of being propped up on an impromptu, triangular divan formed by a piece of wood stuck between two joists and covered with cushions; of watching my mother use lip stick and other make-up things; of hearing the warning knock and admonition: 'Thirty minutes, Miss Lamont;' (No 'Mrs.' in stage lore, you know) and later, 'Fifteen minutes Miss Lamont;' of her cheery response, 'Yes, Parks,' and of her never hurrying or being flustered by the flight of time; of her giving me a sticky kiss as the final peremptory call came. Everyone in the company mothered me, so I was not neglected—doubtless received too much attention. I was a very nimble kidlet, and at an early age the stage carpenter, who had once been in a circus, taught me to walk a taut rope and to perform acrobatic feats.

"In due course I played juvenile leads. When I attained the young and tender grass age, I was sent away to school, my mother having been a shrewd manager and investor. The school was equipped with a fine gymnasium; riding and dancing academies were attached. In all of these institutions I excelled.

"When I was sixteen, my mother died, and I went on the stage. I didn't inherit her talent as an actress, having only mediocre ability, but I had a carrying voice, personality, and could dance, so I soon left the legitimate stage for vaudeville where I made something like a hit.

"Bruce Hebler, who is a motion picture man, persuaded me to come into film land, and if you didn't live at the end of the trail and forego all things that make good cheer, you might have recognized me from billboard pictures and magazine pages as the star of certain woolly West productions. Jo recognized me at once as Bobbie Burr.

"This spring I was a bit under the weather, because we really have to work like dogs and some of our daring stunts—which are not always faked—do get on our nerves, you see. I had to have a vacation, after which I needed another, and was advised to seek recuperation in your hills. My objective point was one hundred or more miles from here at a sort of little isolated inn. En route I missed connections, and having no enthusiasm about my destination, I stayed over in the town nearest Top Hill. In a local paper I read of the arrest of a 'hardened young criminal.' I was curious to see what species of my sex that might be, and followed my impulse to visit her at the jail. Your friend, Bender, gave me permission to visit the 'hardened young criminal.' She was a girl of my own age, size, and altogether what I or any girl could easily have been had it not been for the accident of birth, conditions and environment.

"Fortunately she was an admirer of Bobbie Burr, and I won her confidence and story—Marta's story, which you already know. Things and people had made her put up a bluff of being hardened, but there had come, as you know, the newly awakened desire to 'live straight—like folks who didn't get caught.' To use her own words, 'she wasn't going to let a grand man like him wish himself on such as me.' I felt, then, that thief or no thief, she was the real thing. I only knew one way to get her release and I was rather keen for adventure. We exchanged dress skirts, shoes, hats and coats. I gave her some money, the key to my hotel room, trunk and suitcase and told her to take the next train out while the going was good, and not to show up at the hotel until the night clerk, who had not seen me, came on. I also gave her a letter to some good friends of mine in a town farther west, I knew they would be kind to her, ask no questions and let her stay until she was squared about.

"It was done on an impulse—in a flash—one of those kaleidoscopic impulses we have, but back of it was the wish to help some one, and the curiosity to see if her love, aided by the opportunity, would suffice to reform the kind of girl she was supposed to be.

"She left the jail in my outer clothes, and I stayed in her shabby garments. Old Bender never suspected the transfer. It would have been very easy for me with my agility gained in screen stunts to have swung out from any part of that old jail, and still easier to have given you the slip en route to Top Hill, but I wanted Marta to have plenty of time to get to a far cover before the mistake was discovered.

"Playing a part was second nature to me. I really felt that for the time being I was Marta, but a different Marta from the real one. I always enter into my roles with all my being, so I set the role of a real thief for myself and played up to it so intently that I all but lost my own personality. It was the kind of Marta that Bender supposed her to be who talked to you on that memorable ride to Top Hill. Your wish to be helpful to an unfortunate girl touched me and might have won me to confiding in you, but you were so stern and sometimes so repellant in your manner, I was afraid to trust you. I wasn't sure you would be equal to rising above your chagrin at finding you had been taken in by a 'movie actress' and that you might apprehend poor little Marta.

"By morning I was curious to know your idea of 'the best woman in the world.' Then, too, I thought I could find my needed tonic in your hills and better accommodations than I could obtain at a hotel. So I continued to play my part. When I saw Mrs. Kingdon, I realized she was the best woman in the world. She, like Jo, recognized me at once, having seen me rehearsing in San Francisco. I had the whim to stay incognito and she humored me, insisting, however, that you should be told the next day. But the next day you had gone. In the week that followed I learned the beauty of a home life, hitherto unknown to me.

"Of course those stunts you saw me doing on field day were mere 'horse play' compared with what I have to do in making the pictures. When I met you for a brief space of time that afternoon, I had no opportunity to make my disclosure. When you returned, Mrs. Kingdon was away and I couldn't resist the temptation to play on in my new part. Any one's personality seems more pleasing to me than my own, and I still felt as if I were really Marta.

"My early ideals of manly suitors were patterned slightly on your model; it piqued me, I admit, that you didn't seem to fall for a little romance with me, as many suitors had done.

"When I saved Francis from being thrown (I've turned that trick many a time in pictures) I felt that I had in a way repaid Mrs. Kingdon for her hospitality. You were so homey and nice that night, I almost 'fessed up. I did my best to make you care more—and I thought I had succeeded; but you still made reservations and I thought your reluctance came from my past—Marta's past—

"That night as I stood at my window vaguely regretting my deception, Jo came along. I flew down to him and told him that I had heard from Marta, and we had a nice long talk together. I told him she was living 'straight,' but I respected her wish not to let him know where she was.

"I don't know why, as time went on, I didn't tell you who I was. Maybe it was natural perversity, or the fateful habit of playing a part.

"I ran away to town that day you were all absent and met Larry Lamont, my cousin, the only kinsman I have. He was once a harum-scarum lad and did some flying acts for a company I was with, and one day when he was laid off for 'reasons,' I gave him a calling down and advised him to go to an aviation school and learn to fly scientifically. I hadn't heard from him until I saw him at the hotel, and found he had made good and joined the flying service of France.

"Marta's unexpected arrival upset things. I knew that Mrs. Kingdon was interested in my account of her and in her love for Jo; also that she intended to help them eventually, but I did not know she had communicated with Marta during her own absence. Hebler's sudden appearance was the last straw. He insists I am under contract for another of the wild and woolly pictures I am so tired of playing. I am not posted on the legality of contracts, and it seemed easier to dodge him until he should have to secure some one else. You were very nice about offering to help me evade him. Some way the return of Marta and the sudden arrival of Hebler made me realize I had been playing a part. That night in the library when you told me you loved me and asked me to marry you, I was really myself. I was surprised by the discovery that you loved me; but I wasn't sure of my own feelings. I felt I must think more about it, so pursuing my usual tactics I ran away.

"On passing Hebby's door, that gaudy diamond flashed before me. I'll leave the theft an unsolved mystery.

"When I was forced to reveal my presence to Hebler, I felt that I had balled things up hopelessly and that the only avenue of escape lay in flight—my long suit.

"My only solace in all this bungling mess I have made is that I have brought Jo and Marta together.

"With you at the ranch and Hebler in town, I don't know how I could make my getaway but for Larry. I have telephoned him and he is to meet me near here, and by the time my little carrier dove delivers this, I shall be en route—for France. I'm weary of movies, and life is a delusion anyway.

"I admit it was wrong to deceive you—after the necessity for so doing had passed. You were kind—in intent; still, you might have been a wee bit nicer, don't you think?

"Regretfully, "PENELOPE."

"P. S. Does it hurt now that I use your mother's name?"

He read this letter as one who dreams and is but half conscious that it is a dream. He read it again and again, each time grasping bit by bit the realization of its contents and what they meant to him.

"She was right," he thought. "I didn't know what love meant. I do now—now that I missed it. I've lost her more surely than if she were a 'hardened, young criminal.' I shall never try to find her."

It was hardly sunrise when he went down to the office.

"I should like to speak to Mr. Lamont when he comes down," he said to the clerk.

"He has gone," was the reply. "He came down before his call and has gone to the train."

"Maybe it is just as well," thought Kurt. "There is really no message I could send to her."

"See the picture last night?" asked the clerk chattily. "The Thief, or Meg O' The Prairies. Great picture!"

"Yes; I saw it," replied Kurt dismally.

"I always go to see Bobbie Burr. She's my favorite. There was a girl here the other day who was a dead ringer for her. She had dinner with Lamont here. I read in a magazine that she gets a big salary. I forget the figures, but it was more per week than some folks earn in a lifetime."

Kurt's heart registered more downward beats.

He hung about the office until the dining-room was open and then went in and perfunctorily consumed some food. Later he called up an acquaintance and asked the loan of his car. It was sent around to the hotel, and he was just about to start for the ranch when a well-known voice behind him said:

"May I ride out to Top Hill with you?"

For a moment the blood left his heart and then returned so rapidly it left him quite pale.

"Larry said you were here. I came back on the train just now. I want to go to the ranch for—my things. Will you take me?"

"Yes," he said abstractedly.



CHAPTER XVII

"Kurt!"

He looked up with a start. As on that first ride, long ago, his eyes had been fixed on the road ahead.

"Let's talk a bit," she said. "What did you think—"

"I was such a fool," he replied bitterly. "I should have known that you were not what you pretended you were. You must believe me when I tell you that I loved you from that first night we were up here in the hills. I didn't know how great my love was, though, until I knew I had lost you."

"I thought, or tried to think, you should have known I was not a thief," said Pen, with a soft tone in her voice, "but Larry said that only showed what a good actress I am. I told Larry all about it this morning, and he said no self-respecting man would ask a thief to marry him, not if he knew she was a thief before he loved her."

"I didn't read your letter," he said, "until after I had seen the picture of 'The Thief' last night. So I was prepared for its contents. I read, and not entirely between the lines, that you did not care."

"I didn't think I did—so much—" she answered, "when I wrote that letter; but up there, Kurt, up in the clouds yesterday—something within me unlatched, and I knew that I loved you, and that my love would make you forgive me for deceiving you. You will?"

"I will. But you see there is a greater obstacle than that—or in the thought that you were a thief."

"You mean my being a movie actress. Are you so prejudiced against the profession?"

"The obstacle is that the clerk of the hotel told me he had read somewhere that Bobbie Burr received a stupendous salary."

"Well, don't you think she earns it?"

"You see, a poor foreman of a ranch would never have the hardihood to ask a rich girl to marry him; he'd a thousand times rather marry a poor thief."

"Is that the only obstacle?" she asked.

"It is, and it is unsurmountable."

He was silent, and in his deep-set eyes she read the resolve he had made.

"That is an obstacle that soon can be vanquished. I am a good spender, and I will soon make way with all I have. I am looking for a good investment. Mr. Kingdon or Jo or some one told me Westcott's was for sale. You see, we might run it fifty-fifty. I could buy it and you run it."

"I can't, Pen," he said desperately.

She made no reply.

The car whipped round the curves. She was watching the long efficient hands gripping the wheel. Then she stole a glance at his grim, thrust-forward profile. She felt that something must be done and she was a believer in the power of action over words.

She scanned the side of the road keenly for a way, and when she recognized the memorable little clump of trees, she spoke in plaintive tone.

"Aren't we going to stop at all, Mr. Sheriff Man?"

Instinctively he stopped the car.

She climbed out and went toward the trees. As in a dream he mechanically followed her.

"Do you remember our camping place that night?" she asked.

"Do I remember? If you knew how I battled with my best and strongest feeling that night!"

"Kurt, you know in the library at Top Hill last night—no, night before last, you asked me something. I didn't answer. I will answer now. Kurt, I love you! Now will you ask me—the rest of it?"

"Penelope!"

"Oh! You do—care—Kurt. Your mother's name!"

THE END.

[Transcriber's Note: Minor changes have been made to correct typesetters' errors; otherwise, every effort has been made to remain true to the author's words and intent.]

[Transcriber's Note: Images of the book's original dust jacket.]