"I will not answer the question."

He laughed, shortly.

"From any other woman than you, such an answer as that would be tantamount to an affirmative; but you are a puzzle, Patricia. You are not like anybody else. There is a depth to you that I cannot sound. There is a breadth to you that is like the open country of the Northwest, where one cannot see beyond the sky-line, ever, and where the sky-line remains, always, just so far away."

"I think I'll ask you to excuse me, Mr. Morton," she said, making as if to rise. "This interview is not a pleasant one. You are not kind, or considerate."

He did not move from his position, as he replied, as calmly as she had spoken:

"I shall not go until I have finished. I came here to-night to tell you, again, that I love you. You need not resent the telling of it, for it can in no way offend you, or, at least, it should not. You told me, yesterday, that you had agreed to some sort of business transaction, as you called it, with some man whom you did not name, by which you are to become his wife. I told you then, and I repeat now, that, if you will but say you love this man, whoever he is, I'll hit the trail for Montana without a moment's delay, and you shall never be annoyed again by my Western training; so, answer me."

"I will not answer you." She looked him steadily in the eyes, and, all unconsciously to herself, she could not avoid giving expression to some small part of the admiration she felt for this daring, intrepid ranchman, who defied her so openly, in the library of her own home.

"Who is the man?" he demanded, sharply.

"Again, I will not answer you."

"I shall find it out, then, and, when I have discovered who he is, I shall go to him. Maybe, he will be able to answer the questions. If he refuses, by God, I'll make him answer!"

She started from her chair, appalled by the implied threat. She did not doubt that he meant every word of it.

"You would not dare do that!" she exclaimed. It was beyond her knowledge that any man should have the courage so far to transgress conventional usages. But he heard the word "dare," and applied to it the only meaning he had ever known it to possess. He laughed outright.

"Not dare?" he exclaimed; and he laughed again. "I would dare anything, and all things, in the mood I am in, just now."

Looking upon him, she believed what he said; and, strange to say, she was more pleased than outraged by his determined demeanor. Nevertheless, she realized that she was face to face with an emergency which must be met promptly and finally, and so she left her chair, and drew herself to her full height, directly in front of him.

"Mr. Morton," she said, slowly, and coldly, "I have had occasion, once before, to refer to your training and to mine. We are as far apart as if we belonged to different races of mankind. If you have really loved me, which I doubt, I am sorry because of it, for I tell you, plainly and truly, that I do not, and cannot, respond to you. I have given my promise to another, and very shortly I shall be married. This sudden passion for me that has come upon you, is an affair of the moment, which you will soon forget when you become convinced that it is impossible of fruition. I am the promised wife of another man, and even your Western training, which you have chosen sarcastically to refer to since I made my unfortunate remark about it, will tell you that, no matter what rights you believe you possess, you certainly have none whatever to compel me to listen to your declaration of love." Her manner underwent a sudden and marked change, as she continued rapidly, with a suggestion of moisture in her eyes: "Believe me, I am intensely sorry for the necessity of this scene between us. I do not, and I cannot, return the affection you so generously offer me; and, whether I love another, or do not—whether I have ever loved another, or have not—it would be the same, so far as you are concerned. I am not for you, and I can never be for you, no matter what may happen." She took a step nearer to him, and reached out her hand, while she added, with her brightest smile: "But I like you, very much, indeed. I should like to have you for a true, good friend. It would be one of the proud moments of my life, if I could know that I might rely upon you as such, and that you would not again transgress in the way you have done to-night. Will you take my hand and be my friend. Will you try and seek farther for someone who can appreciate the love you have offered to me? I need a friend just now, Richard Morton. Will you be that friend?"

For a time, he did not answer her. He stood quite still, staring into her eyes, and through them and seemingly beyond them, while his own face was hard, and set, and paler than she had ever seen it, before. Presently, his lips relaxed their tension; the expression of his eyes softened, and he drew his right hand across his brow.

He took the hand that was extended toward him, and held it between both his own, and, for a full minute after that, he stood before her in silence, while he fought the hardest battle of his life. When he did speak, it was in an easy, careless drawl.

"I reckon you roped and tied me that time, Patricia," he said, smilingly. "You've got your brand on me, all right, but maybe the iron hasn't burnt quite as deep as it does sometimes; and, as you say, possibly there will come a day when we can burn another brand on top of it, so that the first one will never be recognized. Will I be your friend? Indeed, I will, and I'll ask you, if you please, to forgive and forget all my bad manners, and the harsh things I've said."

"It is not necessary to ask me that, Mr. Morton."

"Patricia, if you'll just call me Dick, like all the boys do, out on the ranch, and if you'll grant me the permission which I have never asked before, of addressing you as I have just now, it will make the whole thing a heap-sight easier. Will you do it?

"I'd much rather call you Dick than anything else," she told him, still permitting him to hold her hand clasped between his own.

He bent forward, nearer to her; and, although she perfectly understood what he intended to do, she did not flinch, or falter.

He touched his lips lightly to her forehead, and then, with a muttered, "God bless you, girl!" he turned quickly, and went out of the room, leaving Patricia Langdon once again alone with her thoughts.



CHAPTER X

MONDAY, THE THIRTEENTH

The monotonous, but not unpleasing voice of Malcolm Melvin began the reading of the stipulations in the contract to the three persons who were seated before him around the table in the lawyer's private office. The time was Monday morning, shortly after ten o'clock.

"This agreement, hereinafter made, between Roderick Duncan, of the City, County, and State of New York, party of the first part; Stephen Langdon, of the same place, party of the second part; and Patricia Langdon of the same place, party of the third part, as follows: First, the party of the first part—"

"Just wait a moment, Mr. Melvin, if you please," Duncan interrupted him. "If it is all the same to you, and to the other parties concerned in this transaction, I don't care to hear all that dry rot, you have written. If you will be so kind as simply to state in plain English what the stipulations are, it will answer quite as well for the others, and it will suit me a whole lot better."

"It is customary, Mr. Duncan, to listen carefully to a legal document one is about to sign with his name," said the lawyer, with a dry smile.

"I don't care a rap about that, Melvin; and you know I don't. The others know it, too."

"I think," said Patricia, quietly, "that the papers should be read, from beginning to end."

"Nonsense!" exclaimed her father; "and besides, Pat, I haven't time. I ought to be down-town, right now. Let Melvin get over with this foolish nonsense, as quickly as possible; and then, if you and Roderick will only kiss, and make up—"

Patricia interrupted him:

"Very well, Mr. Melvin," she said. "You may state the substance of the agreement."

The lawyer turned toward Duncan. There was a twinkle of amusement in his eyes, although his face remained perfectly calm and expressionless.

"According to these papers as I have drawn them, Mr. Duncan," he said, slowly, "you loan the sum of twenty million dollars to Stephen Langdon, accepting as security therefor, and in lieu of other collateral, the stated promise of Miss Langdon to become your wife. She reserves to herself, the right to name the wedding-day, provided it be within a reasonable time."

"May I ask how Miss Langdon defines the words, a reasonable time?" asked Duncan, speaking as deliberately as the lawyer had done. "As for the loan to Mr. Langdon—he already has that. But, the reasonable time: just what does that expression mean?"

"I suppose, during the season; say, within three, or six, months from date," replied the lawyer.

"That will do very well, thank you. You may now go on." Duncan was determined, that morning, to meet Patricia on her own ground.

"The loan you make to the party of the second part, to Mr. Langdon, is to be repaid to you at his convenience, and with the legal rate of interest, within one year from date. At the church where the wedding ceremony shall take place, and immediately before that event, you are to give to Miss Langdon, a cashier's check for ten-million dollars, which she will endorse and send to the bank, before the ceremony proceeds. It is Miss Langdon's wish to have her maiden name appear as the endorsement on that check. Later, she will have the account transferred from Patricia Langdon to Patricia Duncan. You are—"

"Just one moment, again, Mr. Melvin." Duncan reached forward and pulled the papers toward him. "Will you please show me where I am to sign? What remains of the stipulations, I can hear at another time. Unfortunately, at the present moment, I am in haste, and I happen to know that Mr. Langdon is very anxious to get away."

"Is it your habit to sign legal papers without reading them?" demanded Patricia, with just a little touch of resentment in her tone. She had rather prided herself upon the wording of this document, which she had so carefully dictated to Melvin, and it hurt her to think that her stipulations were passed over so easily.

But the lawyer, who saw in the whole circumstance nothing but a huge joke, which would presently come to a pleasant end, had already pointed out to Duncan the places on the three papers where he was to put his signature, and the young man was signing them, rapidly. He did not reply until he had written his name the third time. Then, he left his chair, and with a low and somewhat derisive bow to his affianced wife, said:

"No, Patricia, it is not; but these circumstances are different from those in which one is usually called upon to sign documents. I certainly should have no hesitation in accepting, without reserve, any conditions which you chose to insist upon, so long as those conditions, in the end, made you my wife. You may sign the papers at your leisure; but I shall ask you to excuse me, now." He bowed smilingly to her, shook hands with the lawyer, and called across the table to the banker:

"So long, Uncle Steve; I'll see you later." A moment afterward the door closed behind him.

"The whole thing looks to me like tomfoolery!" ejaculated the banker, as he drew the papers toward him, and signed them rapidly. "Patricia, you are the party of the third part, here, and you can sign them at your leisure. I've got to go, also. Melvin, you can send my copy of the contract direct to me, when it is ready."

"It is your turn now, Miss Langdon," said the lawyer, in his most professional tone, as soon as her father had gone. But, instead of signing, Patricia, for the first time since the beginning of this confused condition of affairs, lost her pride and became the emotional young woman that she really was.

Without a word of warning, she burst into a passion of tears. Throwing her arms upon the table, she buried her face in them, and sobbed on and on, convulsively, vehemently, inconsolably.

The lawyer, stirred out of his professional calm by this human side of the cold and haughty young woman, placed one hand tenderly, if somewhat tentatively, upon her shoulder. For a time, he patted her gently, while he waited for her tempest to pass.

"There, there, my dear. Don't let it affect you so," he said. "It is nothing but a storm-cloud, that will quickly pass away. It is just like a thunder-shower, very dark while it lasts, but making all the brighter the sunshine that follows it. I know how you have been tried, and how your pride has been hurt; but, child, there are two kinds of pride in everybody, and it is never quite easy to determine which is which. I strongly suspect, my dear, that you have been actuated by a feeling of false pride, in the position you have taken as to this matter. I won't attempt to advise you, now. Don't sob so, my dear. It will all come out right."

She raised her head from the table, and looked at him, pathetically.

"I am so sorry, Mr. Melvin," she said, slowly, with a catch in her breath as she spoke. "I seem to have done everything wrong, in this matter. I've made everybody unhappy." Again, she buried her face in her arms, and sobbed on, with even more abandon than before.

"My child," said the lawyer, "I've lived long enough in the world to discover that it is never wise to permit ourselves to be actuated by false motives. You will discover the truth of that statement, later on; you are only just beginning to realize it, now."

She made no reply to this, but a moment later she started to her feet, and again became the haughty, self-contained, relentless, Juno.

"Give me the pen," she said. "I will sign."

"If you will take my advice," replied the lawyer, without moving, "you will tear up those three documents, or direct me to do so, and leave things as they are."

"No," she replied. "I will sign."

"Very well, Patricia." He pushed the documents toward her, and watched her with a half-smile on his professional face, while she appended her signature to each of them. A moment later, he escorted her from the office, and assisted her into the waiting car. Then, he stood quite still and watched it as it carried her away from the business-section of the city. He shook his head and sighed, as he reentered the building where his office was located.

"Poor child," he was thinking to himself; "she didn't tee-off well, in the beginning of this game, and she encountered the worst hazard of her life when she came up against her own unyielding pride. Poor child! So beautiful, so good, so tender of heart, she hides every real emotion she possesses behind an impenetrable barrier, barring the expressions of her natural affections with an icy shield which she permits no one to penetrate. For just a moment, she let me see her as she is; I wonder if she has ever permitted others." He got out of the elevator, and walked slowly toward his office-door, pausing midway along the corridor, and still thinking on, in the same fashion. "I must find a way to help her, somehow. Old Malcolm Melvin, whose heart is supposed to be like the parchments he works upon, must make himself the champion of this misguided girl. Ah, well, we shall see what can be done. We shall see; we shall see." He passed inside his office then, and in a moment more had forgotten, in the multitudinous affairs of his professional life, that such a person as Patricia Langdon existed.

* * * * *

That Monday, in the evening, at his rooms, Roderick Duncan received two letters. One was delivered by messenger; the other came by post. He recognized the handwriting on the envelope of each, and for a moment hesitated as to which of the two he should read first. One, he knew, was sent by Sally Gardner; the other was from Patricia.

He laid them on the table in front of him, and stood beside it looking down upon the two envelopes with a half-smile upon his face, which was weary and troubled; then, with a broader smile, he took a coin from his pocket and flipped it in the air.

A glance at the coin decided him, and he took up Sally's letter and broke the seal. He read:

"My Dear Roderick:

"I promised you, when you left me Saturday night, to communicate with you at once. Beatrice is quite ill, although you are not to infer from this statement that her indisposition it at all serious. I have merely insisted that she should remain in bed at my house yesterday and to-day.

"On no account should you seek her at present nor should you attempt to communicate with her. I will keep you informed as to her condition because I realize that you will be anxious, inasmuch as you doubtless hold yourself responsible for the present state of affairs. Be satisfied with that, and believe me,"

"Loyally your friend,

"SALLY GARDNER.

"P. S. Doubtless you will see Jack at the club this evening. Let me advise you not to discuss with him anything that happened Saturday night after his departure with Patricia. I have thought it best to keep that little foolish affair a secret between ourselves.

S. G."

Duncan stood for a considerable time with the letter held before his eyes, while he went over in his mind the chain of incidents that followed upon his meeting with Beatrice Brunswick in the box at the opera-house. Presently, he returned the letter to the envelope, and laid it aside, while he took up the other one, addressed in the handwriting of Patricia.

He read it slowly, with widening eyes; and then he read it again, more slowly, as if he were not certain that he had read it aright before. Finally, with something very nearly approaching an oath, he crushed the short document in his hand, and strode to the window, where he stood for a long time, staring out into the darkness, without moving. His valet entered the room and made some remark about dressing him for the evening, but Duncan sharply ordered the man away, telling him to return in half an hour. Afterward he went back to the table where there was more light, and smoothed out the crumpled page of Patricia's letter, so that he could read it a third time.

It was very short and very much to the point; and it had brought with it a greater shock than he could possibly have anticipated. The strange part of it was that he did not comprehend the precise character of that shock. He did not know whether he was pleased, or displeased; whether he was amused, or angry—or only startled. Certainly, he had never thought of expecting such a communication as this from Patricia Langdon. The letter was as follows:

Four, P. M., Monday.

"Dear Roderick:

"According to the document signed jointly by you, my father and myself, and witnessed by Mr. Malcolm Melvin at his office at ten o'clock this morning, I was given the undisputed right to name the day for the ceremony, which is to complete the transaction as agreed upon among us three, but more particularly between you and me. I have thought the matter over calmly and dispassionately, since I parted with you at the lawyer's office, and have decided that, all things considered, it will be best not to defer too long the conditions of that transaction.

"I have decided that the ceremony—a quiet one—shall be performed by the Rev. Dr. Moreley, at the Church of the Annunciation, at ten o'clock in the morning, one week from to-day, which will be Monday, the thirteenth.

"If there should be any important reason why you prefer to change this date, you may communicate the same to me at once, and I shall consider it; but if not, I greatly prefer that matters should stand as I have arranged them.

"PATRICIA LANGDON."



CHAPTER XI

MORTON'S ULTIMATUM

Oddly enough, Roderick Duncan and Richard Morton had never met. Although Morton, during the two weeks of his acquaintance with Patricia Langdon, had been as constantly in her company as it was possible for him to be, there had been no introduction between the two young men. They frequented the same clubs, and Morton had made the acquaintance of many of Duncan's friends; they knew each other by sight, and Duncan had heard, vaguely and without particular interest, that Morton had fallen under the spell of Patricia's stately loveliness. That was a circumstance which had suggested no misgivings whatever to him. He had long been accustomed to such conditions, for it was a rare thing that a man should be presented to Patricia without being at once attracted and charmed by her physical beauty, as well as by her brilliancy of wit.

It was, therefore, with unmasked astonishment that, upon responding to a summons at his door, still holding Patricia's letter in his hand, he found himself face to face with the young Montana cattle-king.

"Mr. Roderick Duncan, I believe?" said Morton, without advancing to cross the threshold when Duncan threw open the door.

"Yes," he replied. "Won't you come inside, Mr. Morton? I know you very well, by sight and name, and, although it has not been my privilege to meet you socially, you are quite welcome. Come inside, won't you?"

The handsome young ranchman bowed, and passed into the room. He strode across it until he was near one of the windows; then, he turned to face Duncan, who had re-closed the door, and had followed as far as the center-table where he now stood, gazing questioningly at his visitor.

"Won't you be seated, Mr. Morton?" Duncan asked.

"Thank you, no. I intend to remain only a moment, and it is possible that the question I have come to ask you may not be agreeable for you to hear, or to answer. If you will repeat your request after I have asked the question, I shall be glad to comply with it."

"I haven't the least idea what you are talking about, Mr. Morton," said Duncan, smiling, "and I can't conceive how any question you care to put to me would be offensive. However, have it your own way. Will you tell me, now, what that remarkable question is?"

Morton was standing with his feet wide-apart, and with his back to the window. His hands were thrust deep into his trousers-pockets. He looked the athlete in every line of his muscular limbs and body, and the frankness and openness of his expression at once interested Duncan.

"Mr. Duncan," he said, "in the country I come from, we do things differently from the way you do them here. I was born on a ranch in Eastern Montana, and I have lived all my life in a wild country. I began my career as a cow-puncher, when I was sixteen, and not until the last two or three years of my life have I known anything at all of that phase of existence which is expressed by the word 'society.' I indulge in this preamble in order to apologize in advance, for any breaks I may make in that mystical line of talk which you call, 'good form.'"

Duncan nodded his head smilingly, and Morton continued:

"Several years ago, I made my 'pile,' as we express it out there, and since that time it has steadily increased in size, so that, lately, I have indulged myself in an attempt to 'butt in' upon the people in 'polite society.' The question I have to ask you will amaze and astonish you, but I shall explain it, in detail, if you desire me to do so."

"Very well, Mr. Morton, what is the question?"

"Are you engaged to marry Miss Patricia Langdon?" demanded Morton, abruptly; and there was a tightening of his lips and a slight forward thrust of his aggressive chin.

Duncan received the question calmly. He thought, afterward, that he had almost anticipated it, although he could not have told why he should do so. He permitted nothing of the effect the question had upon him to appear in the expression of his face, or eyes, and he continued to gaze smilingly into the face of the young ranchman, while he replied:

"I see no objection to answering your question, Mr. Morton, although I do not in the least understand your reason for asking it. Miss Langdon and I are engaged to be married, and the wedding-day is already fixed. It is to be next Monday morning, at ten o'clock. I hope, sir, that you are quite satisfied with the reply?"

Morton did not speak for a moment, but he reached out one hand and rested it on the back of a chair, near which he was standing. Duncan, perceiving the gesture, asked again:

"Won't you be seated, Mr. Morton?"

"Thank you, yes."

He dropped his huge body upon the leather-upholstered chair beside him, and crossed one leg over the other, while Duncan retained his attitude beside the table, still with that questioning expression in his eyes.

"I suppose I ought to make some farther explanation," said Morton, presently. He spoke with careful deliberation, choosing his words as he did so and evidently striving hard to maintain complete composure of demeanor under circumstances that rendered the task somewhat difficult.

"I think one is due to me," was the reply.

"Mr. Duncan, when I hit the trail for this room, to have this talk with you, I sure thought that I had mapped out pretty clearly what I had to say to you. I find now that it's some difficult to express myself. If we were seated together in a bunk-house on a ranch in Montana, I could uncinch all that's on my mind, without any trouble. I hope you don't mind my native lingo."

"Not in the least," replied Duncan, still smiling. "I find it very expressive, and quite to the point."

"Well, it's this way: I arrived in the city about three weeks ago, and one of the first persons I met up with, who interested me was Miss Langdon. There isn't any reason that I know of why I shouldn't admit to you that she interested me more, in about three seconds of time, than anybody else has ever succeeded in doing, during the twenty-eight years I have lived. I was roped, tied, and branded, quicker than it takes me to tell you of it; and the odd part of the whole thing is that I enjoyed the experience, instead of resenting it. I think it was the second time I met up with her when I told her about it, and it is only fair to her, and to you, to admit that she said 'No,' Johnny-on-the-spot. But, somehow, it didn't strike me that it was a final 'no,' or that she had anybody's brand on her; and so I didn't lose the hope that some day I might induce her to accept mine. Last Saturday afternoon, I took her in my car, in company with two other ladies, to her father's office, down-town. She had an interview with her father and somebody else, I suspect, while she was in the office, and whatever that interview was, I am plumb certain that it didn't please her. She come out of the building with her eyes blazing like two live coals, and she was mad enough to shoot, if I am any judge."

He paused, as if expecting some comment from Duncan, but the latter made no remark at all; nor did he change his attitude or the smiling expression of his face. Truth to tell, he was more amused than offended by the other's confidences. Morton continued:

"I had half-promised Miss Langdon that I wouldn't speak to her again of love, but I sure couldn't hold in, that afternoon. I needn't tell you what I said; but the consequence of it was that she told me she had just concluded a business transaction—that was the expression she used—by which she had promised to marry a man whom she would not name. Since that time, I have studied the situation rather deeply, with the result that I came to the conclusion you were the man to whom she referred. That is why I have called upon you this evening, to ask you the question you have just answered."

"Well?" said Duncan. His smile was more constrained, now.

"I'm sure puzzled to know what Miss Langdon means by the 'business transaction' part of it, Mr. Duncan, and I have come up here, to your own room, to tell you that, if Patricia Langdon loves you—"

"One moment, if you please, Mr. Morton. Don't you think you're going rather too far, now?"

"No sir, I don't."

"Very well, I'll listen to you, to the end."

"If Patricia Langdon loves you, Duncan, I'll hit the trail for Montana and the sky-line this afternoon, and I'll ask you to pardon me for any break I have made here, this evening; but, if she doesn't love you, and if, as I suspect, you are coercing her in this matter—"

Again, Duncan interrupted the ranchman. He did it this time by straightening his tall figure, and raising one hand for silence.

"I think, Mr. Morton," he said, coldly, "that you are presuming rather too far. These are personal matters between Miss Langdon and myself, which I may not discuss with you."

Morton sprang to his feet, and faced Duncan across the table.

"By God! you've got to discuss this with me!" he said; and his jaws snapped together, while he bent forward, glaring into Duncan's eyes. "I've got to know one thing from you, Mr. Roderick Duncan; and I've got just one more thing to say to you!"

"Well, what is it?"

The question was cold and very calm. Duncan's temper was rising.

"I'll say it mighty quick and sudden. It is this: If you are forcing Patricia Langdon into this marriage against her will, I'll kill you."



CHAPTER XII

THE QUARREL

Duncan's first impulse, begotten by the sudden anger that blazed within him, was to resent most bitterly the threat thus made against him. But, behind his anger, he was conscious of a certain feeling of respect and admiration for this frank-faced, keen-eyed young Montana ranchman. He saw plainly that Morton was in deadly earnest in what he had said; but he realized, also, that Morton's resentment, as well as the threat he had made, was due, not to any personal feeling harbored against the man he now faced, but was entirely the result of the sense of chivalry which the Western cowboy inevitably feels for every woman. Duncan understood, thoroughly, that Morton's sole desire was to announce himself as prepared to protect, to the last ditch, the young woman with whom he had fallen so desperately in love; and for this Duncan respected and esteemed the man.

In this instance, Duncan was a good reader of character, and, before venturing to reply to the last remark of Morton's, he compelled himself to silence; he tried to put himself in this young man's place, wondering the while if under like circumstances he would have had the courage to do as Morton had done.

"Sit down again, Mr. Morton," he said, presently, waving his hand toward the chair the ranchman had previously occupied.

"No, sir; not until you have answered me."

Duncan smiled, now. He had entirely regained his composure, and was thoroughly master of his own ugly temper, and of the situation, also, as he believed.

"Mr. Morton," he said, "when you entered this room, I did you the honor to listen to your unprecedented statement, without interruption. I now ask you to treat me as fairly as I treated you. Be seated, Mr. Morton, and hear what I have to say."

The ranchman flushed hotly, at once realizing that this young patrician of the East, had, for the moment got the better of him. He resumed his seat upon the chair, and absent-mindedly withdrew from one of his pockets a book of cigarette-papers and a tobacco-pouch.

"Morton," said Duncan, "I am going to speak to you as man to man; just as I think you would like to have me do. I am going to meet you on your own ground, that of perfect frankness; for I do you the honor to believe that you are entirely sincere in your attitude, in your conduct, and in what you have said to me."

"You're sure right about that, Mr. Duncan. Whatever may be said about Dick Morton, there is nobody—at least nobody that's now alive—who has ever cast any doubts upon my sincerity, or my willingness to back up whatever I may have to say."

"You came here out of the West, Morton, and, as you express it, met up with Patricia Langdon. In your impulsive way, you fell deeply in love with her, almost at first sight."

"That's no idle dream."

"You conceived the idea that she wore nobody's brand, which is another expression of your own, which I take to mean that you thought her affections were disengaged."

"That was the way I sized it up, Mr. Duncan."

"Therefore, I will tell you that Patricia and I have been intimate companions, since our earliest childhood. I can't remember when I have not thought her superior to any other woman, and I have always believed, as I now believe, that deep down in her inmost heart she loves me quite as well as I love her. There was an unfortunate circumstance, connected with our present engagement, which, unfortunately, I cannot explain to you, since it is another's secret, and not mine. But I shall explain, so far as to say that the circumstance deeply offended her; that when she made the remark to you, in the automobile, which aroused your resentment, she did it in anger; that, far from coercing her in this matter, I have not done so, and have not thought of doing so; and, lastly, I shall tell you, quite frankly, that the engagement between Patricia and myself and the date of the wedding which is to follow are both matters which she has had full power to arrange to her own satisfaction."

Duncan hesitated a moment, and then, as Morton made no response, he suddenly extended Patricia's letter, which he still held in his hand.

"Read that," he said. "I don't know why I show it to you, save that I feel the impulse to do so. It is entirely a confidential communication, and I call upon you to treat it as such. But read the letter from Patricia Langdon, which I have just received, Mr. Morton; it will probably make you wiser on many points that now confound you."

Morton accepted the letter, but the lines of his face were hard and unrelenting; his jaws and lips were shut tightly together; his aggressive chin was thrust forward just a little bit, and his hazel eyes were cold and uncompromising in their expression.

He read the letter through to the end, without a change of expression; then, he read it a second time, and a third. At last, he slowly left his seat, and, stepping forward, placed the document, which he had refolded, upon the table. He reached for his hat, and smoothed it tentatively with the palm of one of his big hands. But all the while he kept his eyes fixed sternly upon the face of the young Croesus he had gone there to interview.

"Mister Roderick Duncan," he drawled, in a low, even tone, "I don't savvy this business, a little bit. Just for the moment, I don't know what to make of you, or of Miss Langdon, but I am going to work it out to some sort of a conclusion; and, when I have found the answer to the questions that puzzle me now, I'll let you know."

He moved quickly toward the door, but with the lightness of a panther Duncan sprang between it and him.

"One moment, Morton," he said, coldly.

"Well, sir?"

"I have been very patient with you, and extremely considerate, I think, of your importunities and your insolence; but you try my patience almost too far. Take my advice, and don't meddle any farther in matters that do not, and cannot, concern you."

For a moment, the two men faced each other in silence, and both were angry. Duncan was not less tall than Morton, but was slighter of build, and very different—with the difference that will never cease to exist between the well-groomed thoroughbred of many experiences and the blooded young colt. Morton's wrath flamed to the surface, and, forgetting for the moment that he was not upon his native heath, that he was not dressed and accoutred as was his habit when riding the range, he reached down for the place where his holster and cartridge-belt would have been located had he been dressed in the cowboy costume of his native Montana.

It was a gesture as natural to the young ranchman as it was to breathe, and he was ashamed of it the instant it was made. He would have apologized had he been given time to do so. Indeed, he did flush hotly, in his confusion. But Duncan, quite naturally, misinterpreted the act. He thought, and with good reason, that Morton was reaching for his gun; the flush of shame on Morton's cheeks served only to strengthen the conviction. And so, with a cat-like swiftness, he took one step forward and seized the wrist of Morton's right arm, twisting it sharply and bending it backward with the same motion, whereby the ranchman was thrown away from him, and was brought up sharply against the table, in the middle of the room.

Duncan was smiling again now; but it was the smile of intense anger, and not pleasant to see. Without waiting for Morton to recover himself, Duncan calmly turned his back upon the ranchman, and threw open the door; then, stepping away from it, he said, with quiet dignity:

"This is your way out, sir."



CHAPTER XIII

SALLY GARDNER'S PLAN

What might have happened between those two fiery natures at that crisis will never be known, because at the moment when Duncan threw the door ajar, and uttered his dismissal, Jack Gardner appeared suddenly upon the scene, having just stepped from the elevator. If he heard that expression of dismissal, he showed no evidence of it, or he did not comprehend its significance; and, if he saw in the attitude of the two men anything out of the ordinary, he gave no sign that he did so. But Jack Gardner, too, was from Montana; and he had learned, long ago, how to conduct himself in emergencies. It was a fortunate interruption, all around. Duncan, although apparently calm, was in a white rage. He would not have hesitated to meet Morton more than half-way, in any manner by which the latter might choose to show his resentment for the twisted arm. As it was, Gardner was the savior of the situation.

"Hello, Duncan! How are you?" he exclaimed, in his usual manner. "Why, Dick! I didn't expect to find you here; didn't know that you and Dun were acquainted." He shook hands with both the men, one after the other, in his accustomed hearty and irresistible manner, grinning at them and utterly refusing to see that there was restraint in the manner of either.

"It is my first acquaintance with Mr. Morton," replied Duncan easily, and touched a lighted match to the cigar he had previously taken from his case. He was, outwardly, entirely at ease. "He did me the honor to call upon me, and we have been chatting together for more than half an hour. Will you sit down, Jack? Mr. Morton, be seated again, won't you?"

The ranchman looked upon his late antagonist with utter amazement. It was an exhibition of a kind of self-control that was strange to him. It angered him, too, because of his own inability to assume it. He was suddenly ashamed. Patricia's reference to his "training," recurred to him. He understood, now, exactly what she had meant—it had not been plain to him before. Here before him was "the man of the East," at whom he had so often scoffed, for the word "Tenderfoot" had, until now, been synonymous with contempt. But Morton felt himself to be the tenderfoot, in the present case. He replied, stiffly, to the invitation to be seated.

"Thank you," he said. "I find that I am neglecting an engagement." It was the only excuse he could think of.

"Wait just a minute, Dick, and I'll go along with you," said Gardner. "I only stepped in a moment to give Duncan a message from my wife. She says, Roderick, that she would like to have you drop around at the house, for a moment, if you can make it. She is not going out. Now, Dick, if you are ready, I'm with you. So long, Duncan; I'll see you later, at the club."

* * * * *

Just previous to Jack Gardner's interruption of the almost tragic scene at Duncan's rooms, he had been having what he called "a heart-to-heart" talk with his wife, and the message he now delivered to his friend from Sally was, in part, the outcome of that interview.

Sally Gardner had been greatly troubled since the occurrences of Saturday night. Being herself intensely practical, she had sought deeply, through her reasoning powers, to find a means whereby she might be instrumental in helping out of their difficulties her several friends whom she so dearly loved. She believed that she had succeeded in hitting upon a scheme which would, at least, bring things to a focus. She was sure that, if she could bring all the parties together under one roof, matters would straighten themselves without much outside assistance. Jack and Sally owned a beautiful country place, within easy motoring distance of the city, and the young matron, having decided upon what course she would adopt, had lost no time in summoning her husband to her, taking him into her confidence, and convincing him of the wisdom of her project.

"Jack," she told him, when he was seated opposite her, "I don't suppose you realize into what a terrible mess and muddle you got things last Saturday night, by reason of your fondness for a joke?"

"Oh, confound it, Sally, drop it!" he exclaimed, smiling, but annoyed nevertheless.

"No," she said, "we can't drop it, Jack. You're responsible for the whole affair. I have seen the necessity of finding a way out of it, for all of us—although my heart bleeds for poor Beatrice."

Jack shrugged his shoulders, and lighted a cigar. Then, he thrust his feet far out in front of him, and studied the toes of his tan shoes intently.

"What's the matter with Beatrice?" he asked, presently.

"She is in love with Roderick Duncan," replied his wife, with an emphatic nod of her blond head.

"Eh? What's that? In love with Rod? Nonsense!"

"She is, Jack; I know she is."

"Gee, little girl, but it surely is a mix up! What are you going to do about it? Why in blazes didn't she marry him, then, when she had the chance?"

"I've thought of a way Jack, if you will agree to it, and help me out—a way by which things can be smoothed over. Will you help me?"

"Yes, I will. What is it?"

"Could you tear yourself away from the city for two or three days, beginning to-morrow morning?" she asked him.

"I guess so, Sally."

"Are you willing to go out to Cedarcrest for a few days, and entertain a select party, there?"

"Suit me to death, girl. Glad you thought of it. Whom will you ask? And what is the game?"

"I have made out a list," replied Sally, meditatively. "I shall read it off to you, if you will listen."

"Go ahead."

"It includes Beatrice and Patricia, of course; Dick Morton and—"

"Wait a moment, Sally. I've got a sort of a notion in my head that neither Beatrice nor Patricia, will care to go to Cedarcrest on such an expedition as that, under the present circumstances."

"My dear John"—she sometimes called him John when she was particularly in earnest, and when she attempted to be especially dignified—"you may leave all the details of this arrangement to me. I merely wished your consent to the plan."

"Oh, well, if you can manage it, Sally, you've got my consent, all right. What do you want me to do about it? You didn't have to consult me, you know."

"I want you, first, to listen to the list I have made out, and, after that, to carry out my directions in regard to it."

"Good girl; I can do that, too."

"Patricia and Beatrice, Roderick Duncan and the Houston girls, Richard Morton, Nesbit Farnham; and, to supply the other two men who will be necessary to make up the party, you yourself may make the selection. I only wish them to be the right sort."

"What's the scheme, Sally?"

"I want to get these warring elements together, under one roof."

"Whew! You've got more pluck than I thought you had, Sally."

"Listen, Jack: When you go out this evening, find Roderick, and send him here, to me. I have written him not to come here, but that won't make any difference. He'll come if you give him my message. Afterward, you may look up Dick Morton, and the other two men you are to ask, and give them the invitation."

"For when?"

"For to-morrow. Tell them all to be at Cedarcrest before dark, to-morrow. That is all. As I said before, I'll attend to the details."

Jack Gardner left his chair, and, having kissed his wife, was on the point of departure when he paused a moment on the threshold, and, looking back over his shoulder, said, laughingly:

"Sally, I always gave you credit for having more sand than any three ordinary women I've ever known, but, I'll give you my word, I never supposed you had grit enough to undertake any such thing as this one. Talk about me getting things into a mess! Great Scott! if you don't get into one, out at Cedarcrest, with that sort of a mix-up to take care of, I'm a sheep-herder. Maybe you haven't got on to the fact, my girl, but, as sure as you're the best little woman in all New York, Dick Morton is so dead stuck on Patricia Langdon that he can't forget it for a minute. If you bring all that bunch together, you'll have Rod Duncan and Dick at each other's throat, before you get through with it. And besides—"

Sally sprang to her feet, clapped her hands and laughed, to her husband's utter amazement.

"Splendid!" she exclaimed. "No, I did not know that; but it simplifies matters, wonderfully, Jack."

"Oh, does it?"

"Assuredly."

"Huh! I'm glad you think so. It looks to me as if it were just the other way around. Take my word for it, my girl, there'll be a 'will' in that drive of yours—maybe a tragedy, as well. Duncan is quite capable of committing one, in his present mood; and Dick Morton?—Well, you'll see."

"I'm awfully glad you told me. It's perfectly splendid," said Sally, unmindful of, or indifferent to, the warning. "It's perfectly splendid!"

"Oh, it is, eh? Well, I'm glad you think so. To me, it looks a good deal like a mix-up, Sally. Rod is in love with Patricia; Beatrice is in love with him; Nesbit Farnham is so dead stuck on Beatrice that he doesn't know where he's at, more than half the time; and Patricia—Oh, well, I give it up. I'll do what you told me to, and leave the rest to you;" and Gardner laughed his way through the hall and out upon the street; and he continued chuckling to himself, all the way to his club. But Sally ran after him before he got quite away from her, and called to him from the bottom of the steps.

"One thing more, Jack," she said.

"Well, my dear; what is it?"

"We will take Beatrice with us, in our car, and you may include one of the gentlemen I have given you permission to ask. When you ask Dick Morton, tell him that he is to bring Patricia and the two Houston girls. That's all."

"How about the others, how are they going to get there?"

"The others may walk, for all I care," said Sally, and she returned to the library.



CHAPTER XIV

PATRICIA'S WILD RIDE

It was a gay party that assembled around the dinner-table at Cedarcrest, shortly after eight o'clock on Tuesday evening, although, had one possessed the ability to analyze deeply, it would have been discovered that the gaiety was somewhat forced. Each person present at the gathering was burdened by the intuitive perception of something ominous in the atmosphere; there was a portentous quality about the environment that had more or less a depressing effect upon Sally Gardner's guests, and each one was conscious of a determined, but silent effort to overcome this feeling, in the belief that he or she was the only one who experienced it.

Two of the expected guests had not arrived. They were Patricia and Richard Morton; but, because no message of any sort had been received from Morton, it was the generally accepted idea, that something had happened on the road to delay his car, and they were expected to arrive at any moment. The serving of the dinner was delayed as long as possible in expectation of their coming, but at last the other guests seated themselves around the table to enjoy the feast so carefully prepared by Jack Gardner's high-salaried chef. Agnes and Frances Houston, who were to have come out in Richard Morton's car with Patricia, arrived on time, accompanied by an uninvited guest, although he was one who was on such terms of intimacy with the Gardners that he had not hesitated to attend this country party, when the idea was suggested to him. It was the lawyer, Melvin; and the suggestion that he should be present, and that he should take out the Houston girls, had, strangely enough, been made by Morton. The young ranchman had gone to the lawyer's office early in the day of that Tuesday, and the conversation he held with Melvin will give a good idea of the drift of his intentions, and of his hitherto latent talents for planning and scheming. And the shrewd old lawyer quite readily fell in with the suggestions that were made to him.

The invitation extended to Morton, the preceding evening, by Jack Gardner, and the directions given him at the time, as to whom he should take with him to the party, had suggested to him a novel plan, which he lost no time in taking measures to carry out. It is true, he was delighted on learning that he was expected to take Patricia to Cedarcrest, but he was just as greatly disappointed by the idea that Agnes and Frances Houston were to occupy the tonneau of his car, and therefore he planned to avoid the disturbing element. The presence of the lawyer at the club where Gardner and Morton held their conversation, suggested to the latter what he would do, for he knew of the intimate friendly relations existing between Melvin and the Gardners, and did not doubt that the great legal light would be an acceptable addition to the party which Sally had planned. Had he known all of Sally's reasons for the arrangements she had made, and had he realized exactly why the party had been got up, he might have hesitated to do what he did; possibly, he would have refused to attend at all—but developments will show how he took the information, when at last it was given to him. It must be remembered that Morton knew nothing at all of the real incidents of the preceding Saturday, and was aware only of the fact that something was wrong; that something had occurred to annoy and disturb Patricia Langdon out of her customary self-repose. Nevertheless, Morton was convinced, notwithstanding his interview with her and with Duncan, that she was somehow being forced into a position abhorrent to her. He had promised to be her friend, and Dick Morton knew of only one way to fulfill that promise. Whatever he undertook to do, he did thoroughly, and always his first impulse, whenever one of his friends needed aid of any sort, was to fight for that friend.

His initial occupation that Tuesday morning was to visit the garage where his two automobiles were kept, and the instructions to his chauffeur were given rapidly and to the point. An hour later, when he called upon the lawyer, he said, after greetings had been exchanged:

"Melvin, I don't know whether you are aware of it or not, but Jack Gardner and his wife are having a little impromptu house-party, at their place, Cedarcrest, beginning at dinner time, this evening. I believe it is to continue till the week-end, and of course I know it is impossible for you to leave your business for that length of time; but I—"

"What are you talking about, Morton?" the lawyer interrupted him. "Neither Jack nor Sally have thought to invite me to their gathering."

"Oh, well, that doesn't count, you know—not in this instance. I want you to do me a favor. That's the size of it. The point is this: I was told to take Miss Langdon and the Misses Houston, to Cedarcrest, in my White Steamer. I have just discovered that the car is temporarily out of commission, and so I am reduced to the necessity of using my roadster. I came down here to ask you to take the Houston girls to Cedarcrest, for me."

The shrewd old lawyer threw back his head, and laughed, heartily.

"You're not very deep, Morton," he said, presently. "I can see through you as plainly as if you were a plate-glass window. You have come here to induce me to relieve you of the necessity of taking Agnes and Frances Houston to Cedarcrest, in order that you may have Patricia Langdon alone with you in your roadster. And I'll wager that your chauffeur is out of commission, too."

"There will be my machinist in the rumble-seat," replied Morton, blushing furiously. "You see, Melvin, I happen to know that you are always an acceptable addition to any party at that house, and—and so—"

The lawyer laughed again, and raised his hand for silence.

"Don't try to explain," he said, still chuckling. "'Least said, soonest mended,' you know. I'll help you out, for I don't think your suggestion is a bad one, at all. You may leave it all to me, without even going so far as to communicate with the two members of your party whom you wish to rid yourself of. I'll attend to that, by telephoning; and I'll take them to Cedarcrest for dinner, and remain for the night; but I shall have to return early to-morrow morning. When the hour comes for you to start, Morton, you have only to drive around after Miss Langdon." Thus, it happened that, when the party was seated in the splendidly decorated dining-room at Cedarcrest, there were two absentees; as there was, also, one guest who had not been expected, and who, for once in his life, was not entirely welcome at Sally Gardner's country home. For Sally had a wholesome respect for, as well as an intuitive perception of, the old lawyer's shrewdness. Quick to scent a plot of any sort, Mrs. Gardner saw in this incident—the arrival of Melvin with the Houston girls, and the absence of her star guest and escort—certain circumstances that smelled strongly of pre-arrangement. She remembered what her husband had said to her, the preceding day, when she suggested the party; she recalled Jack's statement to the effect that Morton was in love with Patricia, and, because her acquaintance with the young cattle-king had begun in their childhood in Montana, she realized just what he was capable of doing, if by any chance he had been made aware of the circumstances which were the occasion of the gathering at Cedarcrest. Melvin had explained, in as few words as possible, how it happened that he was there; but his explanation only added to the foreboding in Sally Gardner's mind, which grew and grew when daylight faded to twilight, and then to darkness, and still Morton's roadster had not arrived.

Nesbit Farnham was in the seventh heaven of bliss because he was seated at the table beside Beatrice, who bore no outward evidence of having been ill, and who, for the moment at least, was the life of the party; for she compelled herself to a certain gaiety of manner which she did not feel. Duncan had been told, by his host, to bring out the two men who were to complete the party, and he had given little thought to the arrangement made for him until after his arrival at Cedarcrest, when he discovered that the young ranchman and Patricia were alone together, somewhere on the road between the city and their destination. He felt certain misgivings, then, although he could not have defined them; but he recalled the scene that had occurred between himself and Morton, the preceding evening, which had so nearly developed into an open quarrel, and he wondered what the strenuous young ranchman might not attempt to do, in making the most of the opportunity thus afforded him.

Patricia Langdon had received her invitation to Sally's party, and had given her reluctant acceptance, over the telephone, at a late hour the preceding evening. Sally had also told Patricia of the arrangement made for taking her to Cedarcrest. The girl had demurred, at first, and expressed a desire to use her own car; but she had been argued into a final acceptance of Sally's arrangement. It was, therefore, with some amazement that she received Richard Morton, at four o'clock Tuesday afternoon, when he went after her with his roadster, and discovered that they were to ride alone together, to Cedarcrest; for Morton had decided to do without the services of his machinist this afternoon. He was determined to have no third person present, during the thirty miles drive from the city. The lawyer's shrewd guess about the chauffeur being put out of commission had certainly furnished a suggestion for Morton to follow. Patricia hesitated to accompany him, in that manner, but finally consented, though not without reluctance; and so, shortly before five o'clock, they started. They should easily have arrived at Cedarcrest between six and seven.

We already know that they had not put in their appearance at half-past eight. The reason for this delay, was somewhat startling.

When Patricia was well ensconced in the bucket-seat of the roadster beside Morton, he started the car forward at as rapid a pace as the city ordinance would permit. Both were silent for a considerable time, but, at last, Patricia asked him:

"Will you be good enough to tell me why Mrs. Gardner's arrangement for this afternoon, was not carried out?"

Morton turned his face away from her, in order to conceal the smile of amusement in which he indulged himself, and he replied, with apparent carelessness:

"My big car was out of commission, temporarily. I happened to see Melvin, and he agreed to take Miss Houston and her sister to Cedarcrest, for me."

"Oh, indeed! What has happened to your White Steamer? It was only the other day that you told me how proud you were of it because it never got out of order."

He turned his face toward her and replied slowly and with distinctness:

"I won't lie to you about it, Patricia; that wouldn't be fair. I put the car out of commission, myself; or, rather, it was done by my order, because I wanted to take this ride alone with you."

"You should have told me that before we started," she said to him.

"Why? Would it have made any difference in your going?"

"Most certainly it would."

"Do you mean that you would have declined to come with me?"

"I do."

"But why?"

"Chiefly, because I do not approve of plots and schemes, in any form. Had you asked me, frankly and openly, to drive to Cedarcrest with you, I should have felt no hesitation in accepting; as it is, you have given offense, Mr. Morton."

"So much so that you won't even call me Dick?" he said, with a light laugh that was more forced than real.

"Yes. You have not proven yourself quite the friend I hoped you would be. Friends don't plot against each other."

"Shall I turn the car about and take you home?" he asked shortly, with tightening lips, angered unreasonably by the attitude she had assumed.

"No; you may take me to our destination, Cedarcrest."

They drove on in silence for a considerable time after that, and, as soon as they were in the country, on less-frequented roads, Morton increased the speed of his roadster until they were flying along the highway in utter and absolute defiance of the statutes. When they presently arrived at a turn within a few miles of their destination, a turn that would have taken them directly to the house they sought, Morton did not move the steering-wheel of the car, but kept on, straight ahead, and with ever increasing speed.

Patricia knew the road very well indeed; she had been over it many times, and now she called out to her companion:

"You have taken the wrong road. You should have gone around that last turn."

Morton did not reply, or attempt to do so. He seemed not to have heard her.

"Won't you please slow down a little?" she asked, after another moment; and the question came somewhat tremulously, because, strange to say, Patricia was just a little frightened by the circumstance that now confronted her.

Again, Morton made no reply, nor did he comply with her request, and the car flew on and on, while Patricia tried to collect her thoughts, and to determine what were best for her to do toward restraining this head-strong companion of hers, who now seemed like a runaway colt that has taken the bit in its teeth, and has found the strength to defy opposition.

"Richard Morton!" she exclaimed sharply, touching his arm, tentatively. "Why don't you answer me? What are you trying to do? Where are you taking me?"

For just an instant, he flashed his eyes into hers; then he replied, grimly:

"I am taking you for a good ride. We'll steer around to Cedarcrest by another road, presently."

"But I wish to go there at once."

"You can't."

"Do you mean that you refuse to do as I request?"

"Yes," he replied, shortly; and shut his jaws together with a snap like a nut-cracker.

"You dare?"

"I dare anything, Patricia, when I am brought to it. I would like to keep this machine going, at this pace, for hours and days and weeks, with you seated there beside me, and never thinking of a stop until I had you out yonder, in the wild country, where I was born and raised."

Again, she reached out and touched him on the arm, for she was more frightened than she would have confessed to herself; but, before she could speak, he called to her in a tone that was almost savage in its intensity:

"Be careful, please. Don't interfere with my steering, or you will ditch us."

"I demand that you bring this car to a stop," she said coldly, controlling herself with an effort. "I insist that you turn it about, and go back. I am amazed at your conduct, Mr. Morton—amazed and hurt. You are offending me more deeply than you realize."

Again, he did not answer her, and Patricia, now thoroughly alarmed, sought vainly for a means of bringing this impetuous and dare-devil young ranchman to his senses. She thought once, as they ascended a short hill, of leaping from the car to the ground, but the speed was too great for her to take such a risk. It even occurred to her to seize the steering-wheel, and to give it a sharp turn, thus wrecking the machine; but she shuddered with terror when she thought of the possibilities of such an act.

Half a mile farther on, Morton turned the car from the main highway they had been following, and drove it at full speed along a narrow road, where the going was somewhat rough, and where both had to give their entire attention to retaining their seats.

"Are you mad?" she cried out to him, at last. She did not remember ever to have been so frightened before. Actual fear was a new sensation with Patricia Langdon.

Still, he did not answer her, and Patricia started to her feet, determined to make the leap to the ground, risking broken limbs, or worse, to escape from this situation, which was becoming more awful with every moment that passed. A sudden terror lest the man beside her had gone mad, seized her. But Morton grasped her with his left hand, and pulled her back into the seat.

"Don't do that!" he ordered her, crisply.

"Then, stop the car," she replied. "Oh, please, do stop the car. You have no idea how you frighten me. It is very dark, here, and this is a terrible road. Please stop, Mr. Morton."

"Call me Dick, and I'll stop."

"Please stop the car—Dick!"

He closed the throttle, and applied the brake. In another moment the speedy roadster slowed down gradually, and came to a stop, just at the edge of a wood, where there was no house, or evidence of one, visible in any direction; and, then, Richard Morton and Patricia Langdon stared into each other's eyes through the gathering darkness, the former with set jaws and a defiant smile, and the latter with plainly revealed terror.



CHAPTER XV

ALMOST A TRAGEDY

Morton's passion for the beautiful girl beside him had overcome his discretion to such an extent that he was hardly responsible for what he did. The exhilaration of this swift ride through the gathering darkness, the sense of nearness to the woman he believed he loved with every force in him, the certainty that they were alone, and that, for the moment at least, she was his sole possession, stirred up within the young ranchman's mind those elements of barbaric wildness which had grown and thrived to riotousness and recklessness during the life he had lived on the cattle-ranges of Montana, but which had been more or less dormant during his Eastern experiences. He forgot, for the moment, the Sunday-night scene wherein he had promised to be Patricia's friend, and had ceased to be her lover; he remembered only that she was there beside him, with her terror-stricken eyes peering into his beseechingly, and that she looked more beautiful than ever she had before. But, more than all else, the influence she had had over him was absent, and this was so because her haughty defiance and the proud spirit she had hitherto manifested in her attitude were gone. He had never seen her like this before, with the courage taken out of her. It was a new and unknown quality, alluringly feminine, wholly dependent, that possessed her now. She was frightened. And so Morton forgot himself. He permitted the innate wildness of his own nature to rule. He followed an impulse, as wild as it was unkind. He seized her in his arms, and crushed her against him, raining kisses upon her cheeks and brow, and upon even her lips. Patrica strove bravely to fight him off; she struggled mightily to prevent this greatest of all indignities. She cried out to him, beseeching that he release her, but he seemed not to hear, or, if he heard, he paid no heed, and, after a moment more of vain effort, Patricia's figure suddenly relaxed. She realized the utter futility of her effort to hold the man at bay, and she was suddenly inspired to practise a subterfuge upon him. She permitted herself to sink down helplessly, into his confining grasp, and she became, apparently, unconscious.

It was Richard Morton's turn to be frightened, then. On the instant, he realized what he had done. The enormity of the offense he had committed against her rushed upon him like a blow in the face, and he released her, so that she sank back into the confining seat beside him.

"Patricia! Patricia!" he called to her. He seized her hands, and rubbed them; he turned them over and struck the palms of them sharply, for he had somewhere heard that such action would bring a person out of a swoon; but, although he struggled anxiously, doing whatsoever he could to arouse her, and beseeching her in impassioned tones to speak to him, she seemed to remain unconscious, with her head lying back against the seat, her eyes closed, and her face paler than he had ever seen it before.

The car had stopped before the edge of a wood. Just beyond it, there was a bridge over which they must have passed, had they continued on their way. Morton raised his head and looked despairingly about him. He saw the bridge, and experience taught him that there must be a stream of water beneath it. With quick decision, he sprang from the car and ran forward, believing that, if he could return with his cap filled with water, he might restore his companion to consciousness. Then, strange to relate, no sooner had he left the car than Patricia opened her eyes, straightened her figure, and with a quick leap changed her seat to the one beneath the steering-wheel. She accomplished this while Morton was speeding away from her, toward the water.

She saw him arrive at the bridge and disappear down the bank, beneath it; and forthwith, she reversed the gear of the steamer, and opened the throttle. The engine responded instantly, and at the imminent risk of wrecking the car, she backed it, and turned it, reversing and going forward several times, before she quite succeeded in bringing it around, within the narrow space. But, at last, she did succeed, and, just at the moment when the car was headed in the opposite direction, Richard Morton reappeared. He saw, at a glance, what had happened during his short absence. He understood that Patricia had outwitted him, and he ran forward, shouting aloud as he did so.

Patricia caught one glimpse of him over her shoulder, and saw that he carried in his hands the cap he had filled with water to use in restoring her to consciousness—a consciousness she had not for a moment lost, which now was so alert and manifest in effecting her escape.

She paid no heed to his shouts. She opened the throttle wider and wider, and the steam roadster darted away through the darkness, with Patricia Langdon under the wheel, leaving Richard Morton, cap in hand, standing in the middle of the highway, gazing after her, speechless with amazement and more than ever in love with the courageous young woman who could dare, and do, so much.

Patricia Langdon was thoroughly capable of operating any automobile, as was demonstrated by this somewhat startling climax to the unpleasant scene through which she had just passed. Beneath her customary repose of manner, her outward self-restraint and her dignified if somewhat haughty manner, there was a spirit of wildness, which, for years, had found no expression, till now. But, the moment she turned the car about and succeeded in heading it in the opposite direction, the instant she realized that she was mistress of the situation, which, so short a time before, had been replete with unknown terrors, she experienced all that sense of exhilaration which the winner of any battle must feel, when it is brought to a successful issue. She heard herself laugh aloud, defiantly and with a touch of glee, although it did not seem to her as if it were Patricia Langdon who laughed; it was, perhaps, some hitherto undiscoverable spirit of recklessness within her, which called forth that expression of defiant joy, which Richard Morton could not fail to hear.

The night was dark, by now, and there were only the stars to light the narrow way along which Patricia was compelled to guide the flying car; but she thought nothing of this, for she could dimly discern the outlines of the roadway before her, and she believed she could follow it to the main highway, without accident. Morton had not lighted his lamps. There had been no opportunity to do so. But the road was an unfrequented one; and Patricia, as she fled away from Morton, through the darkness, thought only of making her escape, not at all of the dangers she might encounter while doing so.

Several times, she caught herself laughing softly at the recollection of how she had triumphed over the daring young ranchman, and at the predicament in which she had left him, standing there near the bridge, in a locality that was entirely unknown to him, from which he must have some difficulty in finding his way to a place where he could secure another conveyance. He might know what it meant to be left horseless on the ranges of the West, but this would be a new and a strange—perhaps a wholesome—experience for him.

Presently, she came to the turn of the road that would bring her upon the main highway; and here she stopped the car, and got down from it, long enough to light the lamps. This done, she went on again, as swiftly as she dared, yet not too rapidly, because now she felt that she was as free as the air singing past her. The highway she traversed was almost as familiar to her as the streets of New York City.

The exhilaration she had experienced when she triumphed over Richard Morton and escaped from him, increased rather than diminished as she sped onward, and when, almost an hour later, she guided the car between the huge gate-posts which admitted it to the grounds of Cedarcrest, and followed the winding driveway toward the entrance to the stone mansion, she was altogether a different Patricia Langdon from the one who had started out, in company with the young Westerner, shortly after five o'clock that afternoon.

She brought the car to a stop under the porte-cochere, and announced her arrival by several loud blasts of the automobile-horn; a moment later, the doors were thrown open, and Sally Gardner rushed out to receive her.

"I am afraid I am late, Sally," Patricia called out, in a voice that was wholly unlike her usual calm tones. "Will you call someone to care for the car?" Without waiting for a reply, she sprang from beneath the wheel, and with a light laugh returned the impetuous embrace with which the young matron greeted her.

In some mysterious manner, word had already been passed to the guests that Patricia Langdon had arrived in Richard Morton's car, but alone; and so, by the time Patricia had released herself from Sally's clinging arms, Roderick Duncan, followed by the others of the party, appeared in the open doorway. Duncan came forward swiftly, but his host forestalled him in putting the question he would have asked.

"I say, Patricia!" Jack Gardner called out. "What have you done with Morton? Where is Dick?"

"Really, Jack, I don't know," replied Patricia, standing quite still, with her right arm around Sally's shoulders, and lifting her head like a thoroughbred filly. Mrs. Gardner's left arm still clung around her waist. "Mr. Morton is back there, somewhere, on the road. If he doesn't change his plans, he should arrive here, presently." She laughed, as she replied to the question, perceiving, at the moment, only the humorous side of it. She was still under the influence of that swift ride alone; still delighted by the thought of the predicament in which she had left her escort, because of his outrageous conduct toward her.

"Did you meet with an accident? Has anything happened to Mr. Morton?" inquired Agnes Houston.

Patricia shrugged her shoulders, and, again laughing softly, withdrew from Sally's embrace and began to ascend the steps. One of the Cedarcrest servants appeared at that moment, to take the car around to the garage; and for some reason each member of the party stepped aside, one way or another, so that Miss Langdon was the one who led the way into the house, the others falling in behind her, and following. The circumstance of her arrival in such a manner and the suggestion of mystery conveyed in Patricia's answer to Jack Gardner's question convinced all that something had happened which needed an explanation. Patricia's demeanor was so different from her usual half-haughty bearing, that it was, in a way, a revelation to them all. Each one there had his or her own conception of the occasion, and probably no two opinions were the same; but at least they were all agreed on one point: that there had been a scene somewhere, and that Richard Morton had got the worst of it.

Patricia led the way to the dining-room. Her head was high, her eyes were sparkling. Duncan hastened to her side, but she took no notice of his nearness. As she entered the room, she called out:

"Do order some dinner served to me, Sally. I am as hungry as the proverbial bear. You see, I had anticipated a hearty dinner with you, and the long ride I have had—particularly that part of it which I have taken alone—has whetted my appetite."

Sally nodded toward the butler, and waved him away, knowing that he had overheard Patricia's words, and that she would speedily be served; the others of the party resumed their former seats around the table, and the practical Sally turned and faced Patricia, again, her eyes flashing some of the indignation she felt because of her guest's evident reluctance to explain the strange circumstance of her arrival at Cedarcrest alone.

"Patricia Langdon," she said, "I think you might tell us what has happened. We are all on edge with expectancy. Where is Dick Morton?"

"Oh, he is somewhere back there on the highway, walking toward Cedarcrest, I suppose," replied Patricia smilingly, dropping into a chair beside the table.

"Did you start out from New York together?" persisted Sally.

"Oh, yes."

"Won't you please tell us what has happened?"

Patricia's lips parted, while she hesitated for a reply. She had no desire to tell these people of the incidents that had actually occurred. Many another, in her position, would have revealed at once the whole truth, and would have made these others acquainted with the conduct of Richard Morton, during that wild ride she had been forced to take with him through the gathering gloom. But Patricia was not that kind. She was quite conscious of the strangeness of her arrival at Cedarcrest alone, in Morton's car, and of the wrong constructions which might be given to the incident. She knew that every man who was present in the room, would bitterly resent the indignities Morton had put upon her, if she should relate the facts. But she believed that Morton had been sufficiently punished. She even doubted if he would appear there, at all, now; and so, instead of replying to Sally's repeated request, she shrugged her shoulders, and responded:

"I think I'll leave the explanation to Mr. Morton, when he arrives."

Food was placed before her at that moment and she transferred her attention to it; while her friends, perceiving that she was not inclined to take them into her confidence, started other subjects of conversation, although the mind of each one of them was still intent upon what might have happened during Patricia's journey from New York in the company of Richard Morton.

Roderick Duncan had not resumed his seat at the table; he had remained in the background, and had maintained an utter silence. But his thoughts had been busy, indeed. He knew and understood Patricia, better than these others did—with the possible exception of Beatrice, who also was silent. But, now, he passed around the table until he stood behind Patricia's chair. Then, he dropped down upon a vacant one that was beside her, and, resting one elbow on the table, peered inquiringly into the girl's flushed face, more beautiful than ever in her excitement. That strange feeling of exhilaration was still upon her, and there was undoubted triumph and self-satisfaction depicted in her eyes and demeanor.

"What happened, Patricia?" he asked her, in a low tone, which the others could not hear.

"Nothing has happened that need concern you at all," she replied to him, coldly.

"But something must have happened, or you—"

"If something did happen," she interrupted him, "rest assured that I shall tell you nothing more about it, at the present time. If Mr. Morton chooses to explain, when he arrives, that is his affair, and not mine. I am here, and I am unharmed. Somewhere, back there on the road my escort is probably walking toward Cedarcrest; or, perhaps, away from it. You will have to be satisfied with that explanation, until he arrives—if he does arrive." She spoke with such finality that Duncan changed the character of his questioning.

"I have not seen you, Patricia, since the receipt of your letter, fixing our wedding-day for next Monday," he persisted. "It now occurs to me that, in the light of the contents of your letter, I have a right to ask you for an explanation of the incidents of to-night."

Patricia turned her eyes for an instant upon him, and then withdrew them, while she said, coldly:

"If you have taken time to read carefully the stipulations in the contract you signed yesterday morning, at Mr. Melvin's office, you will understand why I deny your right to do so."

"Has Morton affronted you in any way?"

"Ask him. I have no doubt that he will answer you."

"Patricia, are you going to persist in this attitude toward me, even after we are married?" Duncan inquired, anxiously. But, instead of replying, she raised her head in a listening attitude, and announced to all who were present:

"I hear the horn of an approaching automobile. Perhaps, Mr. Morton has caught a ride."

"Answer me, Patricia," Duncan insisted.

"My conduct will be the answer to your question," she said, with her face averted.

Jack Gardner hurriedly left the room, accompanied by Sally. A moment later, when the automobile horn sounded nearer, Duncan left his place beside Patricia, and followed. Melvin, the lawyer, also went out, and then one by one the others, until Patricia was the only guest who remained at the table. She continued to occupy herself with the food that had been placed before her, while the flush on her cheeks deepened, her eyes shone with added brightness, and she smiled as if she were rather pleased than otherwise by the predicament in which Morton would find himself, when he should be closely questioned by Jack and Sally Gardner and the guests as well, whose curiosity, she knew, would now far exceed their discretion.

It never once occurred to her that Dick Morton, having had time to think over the occurrences of the afternoon and evening, and to realize the enormity of the offense he had committed, would tell the truth about it. Men within her knowledge, who belonged to the society with which she was familiar, would temporize, under such circumstances, would seek, by diplomatic speech to shield the woman in the case from the comment that must follow a revelation, would make use of well-chosen words to escape responsibility for what had occurred; would practise a studied reserve until certain knowledge could be obtained of what the woman might have said, upon her arrival.

The doors had been left open, and Patricia was conscious of loud tones proceeding from the veranda at the front of the house; of masculine voices raised in anger; and then she heard the sound of a blow, followed instantly by a heavy fall. Almost at the same instant, the sharp crack of a pistol smote upon the air, for an instant stiffening her with horror. She started to her feet in terror, her face gone white, her eyes dilated with apprehension. Then, she somehow stumbled to her feet, and stood there, trembling in every nerve, until she could gather strength to run forward.

A horrified and silent group of persons surrounded the principals in the scene that had just occurred, for there had not yet been time for any of them to recover from the paralyzing effect of what had happened.

Richard Morton was on the floor of the veranda where he had raised himself upon one elbow, and he still held in his right hand the small revolver from which the shot that Patricia had overheard, had come. Roderick Duncan was standing a few feet away, and he was holding in his arms the limp form of Beatrice Brunswick, whose head had fallen backward, as if she were unconscious, or dead. Just at the instant when Patricia caught a view of this strange tableau, the other spectators threw off the momentary lethargy that had overpowered them, and rushed forward toward the principal actors in the scene that had passed, each shouting a different exclamation, but all alike in their expressions of horror and loathing for the man who was down—Richard Morton.



CHAPTER XVI

THE AUTOMOBILE WRECK

Thirty minutes after the happening of the incidents just related, a remarkable scene took place in Jack Gardner's smoking-room. There were present only the men of Sally's impromptu week-end party.

If the friends whom Jack Gardner had made since his sojourn in the East could have seen him at that moment, they would not have recognized in the coldly stern, keen-eyed copper magnate, the happy-go-lucky, devil-may-care Jack, of their acquaintance. The almost tragic occurrences of the evening had brought the real Jack Gardner to the surface, and he was for the moment again the dauntless young miner who had fought his way upward to the position he now held, by sheer force of character; for it requires a whole man to lift himself from the pick and shovel, and the drill and fuse, to the millionaire mine-owner and the person of prominence in the world such as he had become. He stood beside the small table at one end of the room; Morton occupied the center of it, facing him. Grouped around them, in various attitudes, were the others of that strange gathering. Duncan leaned idly against the mantel, and smoked his cigar with deliberation, although his gray eyes were coldly fierce in their expression, and his half-smile of utter contempt for the man who occupied the center of the scene rendered his face less handsome and attractive than usual. Malcolm Melvin was alert and attentive, from the end of the room opposite Gardner, and the other gentlemen of the party occupied chairs conveniently at hand.

It would be hard to define Richard Morton's attitude from any outward expression he manifested concerning it. He stood with folded arms, tall and straight, facing unflinchingly the accusing eyes of his life-long friend, Jack Gardner. His lips were shut tightly together, and he seemed like one who awaits stoically a verdict that is inevitable.

"Morton," said Gardner, speaking coldly and with studied deliberation, "you have been a life-long friend of mine, and, until to-night, I have looked upon you almost as a brother; but, to-night, by your own confession and by your acts which have followed upon that confession, you have destroyed every atom of the friendship I have felt for you. You have made me wish that I had never known you. You have outraged every sense of propriety, and every feeling of manhood that I thought you possessed. Fortunately for us all, no one is much the worse for your scoundrelism; I can call it by no other word. You have shown yourself to be, at heart, an unspeakable scoundrel, as undeserving of consideration as a coyote of the plains."

Morton's face went white as death at these words, and his eyes blazed with the fury of a wild animal that is being whipped while it is chained down so that it cannot show resentment. He did not speak; he made no effort to interrupt. Gardner continued:

"When Miss Langdon arrived here alone, in your roadster, she gave us no explanation whatever of what had happened, and, while we believed that some unpleasant incident must have occurred, we did not press her for the story of it. Then, you came, and without mincing your words you told the whole brutal truth; and you uttered it with a spirit of brutality and bravado that would be unbelievable under any other circumstances. And when, in your own self-abasement for what you had done, you confessed to the acts of which you were guilty toward Miss Langdon, you received, at Duncan's hands, the blow you so thoroughly merited; I am frank to say to you that, if he had held his hand one instant longer, it would have been my fist, instead of his, that floored you. But that is not all. You have been a gun-fighter for so many years, out there in your own wild country, that, before you were fairly down after you received the blow, you must needs pull your artillery, and use it. Do you realize, I wonder, how near to committing a murder you have been, to-night? If Miss Brunswick had not seen your act, if she had not started forward and thrown herself between your weapon and its intended victim, thus frightening you so that you sought at the last instant to withhold your fire, I tremble for what the consequences might have been. As it happened, no one has been harmed. You deflected your aim just in time to avoid a tragedy; but it is not your fault that somebody does not carry a serious wound as the consequence of your brutality. Were it not for Miss Brunswick's act, there would be a dead man at this feast, and you would be his murderer. But even that, horrible as it might have been, is less a crime than the other one you have confessed. You, reared in an atmosphere where all men infinitely respect woman-kind, deliberately outrage every finer feeling of the one woman you have professed to love. That, Richard Morton, is very nearly all that I have to say to you. I have asked these gentlemen to come into the room, and to be present during this scene, in order that we may all bind ourselves to secrecy concerning what has happened to-night. I can assure you that nothing of this affair will leak out to others. I have quite finished now. One of the servants will bring your roadster around to the door. Our acquaintance ends here."