CHAPTER VILORD FARQUHAR GIVES MOYA A HINT
Verinder's man, Biggs, who had been a fascinated spectator of the Wild West sports at Gunnison, was describing them to Fisher, maid to Lady Farquhar and general buttoner-up-the-back to the entire feminine contingent of the party.
"What do you mean when you say a horse bucks?" she wanted to know.
"'E throws down 'is 'ead and 'e throws up 'is 'eels and you cawn't remain," he explained, without entire originality.
"Fancy now!"
"Consequence is the rider lands himpromptu onterra firma, so to hexpress it."
"Dear me. But doesn't it make him dusty, Mr. Biggs?"
"A bit."
"Couldn't Captain Kilmeny ride one of the bronchos?"
"I've 'eard that the captain is a crack rider, none better in the harmy, Miss Fisher. 'E could ridethe blawsted brute if it wouldn't 'ide its bloomin' 'ead between its legs."
Moya, patrolling the willow walk in front of the Lodge, took this in with a chuckle.
It was a still night, save only for the rushing waters of the river. The lamps of the sky had all been lit and were gleaming coldly millions of miles away. The shadowed moonlight in the trees offered a stage set to lowered lights.
The thoughts of the girl had drifted to speculation about the transplanted countryman of hers whose personality had come to interest her so greatly. He had challenged her trust in him and she had responded with a pledge. He had not explained a single one of the suspicious circumstances against him. He had not taken her into his confidence, nor had he in so many words declared his innocence. She was glad he had told her nothing, had demanded her faith as a matter of course. It was part of her pride in him that she could believe without evidence. All the world would know he was not guilty after he had shown his proofs. It would be no test of friendship to stand by him then.
A step sounded on the gravel behind her and an arm opened to let her hand slip round the elbow.
"May I stroll out this dance with you, Miss Dwight?" Lord Farquhar asked formally, dropping into step with her.
Moya and her guardian were kindred spirits.They never needed to explain themselves to each other. Both knew how to make-believe.
"If you're not afraid of a scandal at being alone with me so far from a chaperone," the girl answered lightly.
He burlesqued a sigh. "I'm only afraid there won't be any. It's the penalty of age, my dear. I can claim all sorts of privileges without making Verinder jealous."
"Oh, Verinder," she scoffed.
"Should I have said Kilmeny?" he asked.
"I'll tell you a secret, guardy," whispered Moya gayly. "You're a hundred years younger than either of them."
"I wish my glass told me so."
"Fiddlesticks! Youth is in the heart. Mr. Verinder has never been young and Captain Kilmeny has forgotten how to be."
"I fancy Ned would be willing to learn how again if he had the proper teacher."
She gave his arm a little squeeze. "You dear old matchmaker."
"Heaven forbid! I'm merely inquiring, my dear."
"Oh, I see—yourin-loco-parentisduty."
"Exactly. So it isn't going to be Ned?"
She looked across the turbid moonlit river before she answered. "I don't think so."
"Nor Verinder?"
"Goodness, no!" A little ripple of laughter flowed from her lips before she added: "He's changed his mind. It's Joyce he wants now."
Farquhar selected a cigar from the case. "Hm! Sure you didn't change it for him?"
A dimple flashed into her cheeks. "I may have helped a little, but not half as much as Joyce."
"That young woman is a born flirt," Lord Farquhar announced, his beard and the lower part of his face in the sudden glow of the lighted match. "Upon my word, I saw her making eyes at your highwayman the night we had him here."
There was a moment's silence before she answered. "Anybody could see that he was interested in her."
"It doesn't matter to me who interests him, but I can't have any of my wards being romantic over a Dick Turpin," he replied lightly.
She was standing in the shadow, so that he could not see the dye sweep into her cheeks.
"I'm afraid he is going to disappoint you. He's not a highwayman at all."
"Did he tell you so?"
"No. But I know it."
"Looks to me as if he might make a good one. The fellow is cool as a cucumber and afraid of nothing on two legs or four."
"You forget he is India's cousin."
"No, I'm remembering that. His father had adevil of a temper and his mother was as wild as an unbroken colt when I met her."
"They weren't thieves, were they?" she flashed.
He gave her his frank smile. "You like this young man, Moya?"
"Yes. Why shouldn't I?"
"Why not—if you don't like him too well?"
"So that's why you came out here—sent by Lady Farquhar to scold me—and I thought you had come because you like to be with me."
"One reason doesn't preclude the other."
"I've known for several days she had it on her mind—ever since we saw Mr. Kilmeny on Sunbeam Creek."
"Come; let us reason together," he invited cheerfully. "We'll sit on the end of the wharf and dangle our legs while your guardian finishes his cigar and does his duty by you."
They compromised on a wire-woven seat under a cottonwood. Across the river two fishermen could be seen working down stream close to the opposite shore. The two were Verinder and Captain Kilmeny, though at that distance they were not recognizable.
Lord Farquhar seemed in no hurry to begin, nor did Moya attempt to hasten him. His cigar glowed and ashed and glowed again before he spoke.
"Odd how things work out, my dear. There across the river are two men who would like tomarry you. Both are good matches. One is by way of being a bit of a bounder perhaps, but the other is as fine a fellow as any girl could look for—not brilliant, but no fool either, and as steady as a clock."
A breath of wind lifted the edge of her white skirt. She followed the woman's instinct to tuck it safely under her before making demure answer. "Captain Kilmeny is his own certificate of merit. Any praise is surplusage."
He shrugged. "That's the perversity of it. You see all his merits and they don't touch you."
With a vivacious little turn that was wholly charming she turned merrily upon him. "Are you by any chance proposing for him, Lord Farquhar?"
"Hasn't he proposed for himself?" her guardian asked bluntly.
"I believe he has."
"And you—didn't see it?"
"I couldn't."
"Sorry." He looked at the tip of his cigar and brushed away the ash. "Because he's a no end good sort."
"You don't know that any better than I do. Don't think I can't see all the advantages of it. I do. I want to say 'Yes,' but—well, I can't. That's all."
"On account of the other man?" he questioned gently.
"I haven't mentioned any other man," she cried, her face in a flame.
"No, I mentioned him. Devilish impudent of me, if you want to take it that way, Moya. But, then, as you've said, I'min loco. Got to grub around and find out how you feel."
"Lady Jim has been poking you up and telling you it's your duty," she told him in derision.
"I daresay. I'm a lazy beggar. Always shirking when I can."
"Lady Jim isn't lazy."
"Di does her duty even when it isn't pleasant. Pity more of us don't."
"Meaning that it is my unpleasant duty to marry Mr. Verinder's money?"
"Hang Verinder and his money. I'm no end glad you can't stand him. Fact is, we didn't quite know how bad he was when we asked him to join us."
"What then?"
"Well, sure your money isn't on the wrong horse, Moya? Mind, I don't say it is. I ask."
"If you mean Mr. Kilmeny, there hasn't been a word between us you couldn't have heard yourself," the girl told him stiffly.
"If my memory serves it didn't use to be so much a matter of words. What about your feelings? Di fancies——"
"Of course she does. She's always fancying.That's the business of a chaperone. It's perfectly absurd," Moya flung back hotly.
"Glad you see it that way. It wouldn't do, of course."
She looked directly at him, a challenge in her stormy eyes. "The whole thing is ridiculous. The man hasn't given me a second thought. If you're going to warn anyone, it ought to be Joyce."
Lord Farquhar looked straight at her. "Joyce has her eyes wide open. She can look out for herself."
"And I can't?"
"No, you can't—not when your feelings are involved. You're too impulsive, too generous."
"It's all a storm in a teacup. I've only met him three times to talk with. He's been friendly—no more. But if he and I wanted to—not that there's the ghost of a chance of it, but if we did—I don't see why it wouldn't do."
"Any number of reasons why it wouldn't. Marriage nowadays isn't entirely a matter of sentiment. You're an Englishwoman. He's an American, and will be to the end of the chapter."
"I'm not English; I'm Irish—and the Irish make the best Americans," she told him sturdily.
Farquhar ignored her protest. "His ways of thinking are foreign to yours, so are his habits of life. You're a delightful rebel, my dear, but you've got to come to heel in the end. All girls do. It'sa rule of the game, and you'll have to accept it. No matter how captivating your highwayman may be—and upon my word I admire him tremendously—he is not your kind. He makes his own laws, and yours are made for you."
"You're making one for me now, aren't you?" she demanded rebelliously.
"Let's not put it so strong as that. I'm trying to persuade you to something of which you are fully persuaded already."
"I'm not—not in the least. It's absurd to talk about it because the man hasn't the least idea of making love to me. But suppose he wanted to. Why shouldn't I listen to him? You tell me he doesn't have the same little conventions as we do. Thank heaven he hasn't. His mind is free. If that condemns him——"
She broke off from sheer passionate inadequacy to express herself.
"Those conventions are a part of your life, little girl. Can you imagine yourself sitting opposite him at breakfast for the rest of your natural days?"
"You mean because he is a workingman, I suppose."
"If you like. You would miss all the things to which you were used. Love in a cottage isn't practicable for young women brought up as you have been."
"Then I've been brought up wrong. If I werefond enough of the man—but that's absurd. We're discussing an impossible case. I'll just say this, though. I've never met a man who would be as little likely to bore one."
"Does his cousin bore you?"
"No. Captain Kilmeny is interesting in his way too, but——"
"Well?"
"His thoughts are all well regulated ones. He keeps to the proper beaten track." She flung up a hand impatiently. "Oh, I know he's perfect. I've never been allowed to forget that. He's too perfect. He would let me do anything I wanted to do. I would want a husband—if I ever have one—who would be strong enough to make me want to do whatever he said."
Farquhar smiled as he flung his cigar into the river. "That works out better in theory than in practice, my dear. It's the little things that count in married life. What we need is a love well under control and friction eliminated."
"That's not what I want. Give me my great moments, even if I have to pay for them."
He understood perfectly her eager desire for the best life has to offer. What he was proposing for her was a tame second best. But it was safe, and the first rule of the modern marriage mart is to play the game safe. Yet he had a boyish errant impulse to tell her to cut loose and win happinessif she could. What restrained him, in addition to what he owed Lady Jim in the matter, was his doubt as to this young man's character.
"There would be another thing to consider. Kilmeny is under a cloud—a pretty serious one. All the evidence connects him with this robbery. Grant that you believe him innocent. Still, a nice girl can't let her name be connected with that of a man suspected of a crime."
"I'm sure he isn't guilty. I don't care what the evidence is."
"'Fraid that's sentiment. It has a bad look for him."
"Do we desert our friends when things have a bad look for them?"
"Hm! Friends!"
"I used that word," she told him stanchly.
"But you've only talked with the man three times," he answered with a gleam of friendly malice in his eyes.
"I've talked with Mr. Verinder forty times and I'm less his friend after each talk," she returned with energy.
"Well, I daresay I've exaggerated the whole matter, my dear. I was just to give you a hint—no more."
"You've done it, then."
"Strikes me that I've done my duty in the matter."
"You have—admirably," she scoffed.
"It's up to Di now—if you should take a fancy for entertaining your highwayman again while you're fishing."
"It's not likely that I'll ever see him again."
"I daresay not." He rose and looked across the rushing water. "There's just one thing I stick out for. Regardless of your interest in him—no matter what might happen—you wouldn't let things get on another footing until he has proved his innocence—absolutely and beyond question."
"Isn't that rather an unnecessary condition? I'm not in the habit of throwing myself at the heads of strangers who are merely casually polite to me."
He took in her sweet supple slimness, the fine throat line beneath the piquant lifted chin which mocked his caution, the little imps of raillery that flashed from the dark live eyes. In spite of a passionate craving for the adventure of life she had a good deal of reticence and an abundant self-respect. He felt that he had said more than enough already.
"Quite right, my dear. I withdraw my condition."
"It's one I would insist upon myself—if there were any likelihood of any need of it—which there isn't."
An easy-going man, he did not cross bridges till he came to them. His wife had persuaded him thatMoya needed a talking to, but he was glad to be through with it.
"Hang the scamp, anyhow!" he laughed. "Maybe he'll break his neck on one of those outlaw bronchos he's so fond of riding. Maybe they'll put him safely away in prison, where there is neither marrying nor giving in marriage. Maybe, as you say, he'll have the bad taste to prefer Joyce to my little Irish wild rose, in which case he'll be put in his place at the proper time."
"It's even possible," she added with a murmur of half-embarrassed laughter, "that if he honored one with an offer—which it has never entered his head to do—one might regretfully decline with thanks."
"Amen! In the meantime God lead your grace by the hand, as old Bacon says." He brought his heels together, bowed over her fingers, and kissed them with exaggerated old-fashioned gallantry.
"Who's being romantic now?" she wanted to know gayly.
CHAPTER VIIMOYA'S HIGHWAYMAN
Dinner at the Lodge was just finished. It was the one hour of the day when anything like formality obtained. Each one dropped into breakfast when he or she pleased. Luncheon rarely found them together. But Lady Jim insisted that dinner should be a civilized function. Unless there was to be night fishing the whole party usually adjourned from the dining-room to the river-front porch, where such members of it as desired might smoke the postprandial cigar or cigarette. To-night nobody cared to get out rod and line. In an hour or so they would return to the living-room for bridge.
Voices drifted up the trail and presently riders came into sight. They halted among the trees, where one dismounted and came forward, his trailing spurs jingling as he walked.
He bowed to his audience in general, and again and more particularly to Lady Farquhar.
"Evening, ma'am. My name's Gill—sheriff of this county. I hate to trouble you, but my menhaven't had a bite to eat since early this mo'ning. Think we could get a snack here? We'll not get to Gunnison till most eleven."
Lady Farquhar rose. "I'll have the cook make something for you. How many?"
"Six. Much obliged. Just anything that's handy."
Sheriff Gill beckoned to the men in the trees, who tied their horses and presently came forward. All but one of them were heavily armed. That one walked between a 30-30 and a 32 special carbine. It was observable that the men with the rifles did not lift their eyes from him.
Moya felt her heart flutter like that of a caged bird. The blood ebbed from her lips and she swayed in her seat. The prisoner was Jack Kilmeny. Farquhar, sitting beside the girl, let his hand fall upon hers with a comforting little pressure.
"Steady!" his voice murmured so that she alone heard.
Yet his own pulse stirred with the sheer melodrama of the scene. For as the man came forward it chanced that the luminous moonbeams haloed like a spotlight the blond head and splendid shoulders of the prisoner. Never in his gusty lifetime had he looked more the vagabond enthroned. He was coatless, and the strong muscles sloped beautifully from the brown throat. A sardonic smile was on the devil-may-care face, and those whosaw that smile labeled it impudent, debonair, or whimsical, as fancy pleased.
"By Jove, the fellow's a natural-born aristocrat," thought Farquhar, the most democratic of men.
Jack Kilmeny nodded with cool equality toward Farquhar and the captain, ignored Verinder, and smiled genially at India. For Moya his look had a special meaning. It charged her with the duty of faith in him. Somehow too it poured courage into her sinking heart.
"Afraid an engagement at Gunnison with Sheriff Gill won't let me stop for any poker to-night," he told his host.
Farquhar was on the spot to meet him in the same spirit. "Verinder will be glad of that. I fancy my pocketbook too will be fatter to-morrow morning."
Biggs appeared to take the newly arrived party in charge. As they started to follow him the prisoner came face to face with Joyce, who was just coming out of the house. She looked at the young miner and at the rifles, and her eyes dilated. Under the lowered lights of evening she seemed to swim in a tide of beauty rich and mellow. The young man caught his breath at the sheer pagan loveliness of her.
"What is it?" she asked in a low, sweet, tremulous voice.
His assurance fled. The bravado was spongedfrom his face instantly. He stared at her in silence from fascinated eyes until he moved forward at the spur of an insistent arm at his elbow.
India wondered how Lady Jim would dispose of the party. Jack Kilmeny might be a criminal, but he happened to be their cousin. It would hardly do to send him to the servants' quarters to eat. And where he ate the sheriff and his posse would likewise have to dine.
The young woman need not have concerned herself. Lady Farquhar knew enough of the West and its ways not to make a mistake. Such food as could be prepared at short notice was served in the dining-room.
Having washed the dust of travel from himself, the sheriff returned to the porch to apologize once more for having made so much trouble.
Farquhar diverted him from his regrets by asking him how they had made the capture.
"I ain't claiming much credit for getting him," Gill admitted. "This here was the way of it. A kid had been lost from Lander's ranch—strayed away in the hills, y'understand. She was gone for forty-eight hours, and everybody in the district was on the hunt for her. Up there the mountains are full of pockets. Looked like they weren't going to git her. Soon it would be too late, even if they did find her. Besides, there are a heap of mountainlions up in that country. I tell you her folks were plumb worried."
Moya, listening to every word as she leaned forward, spoke vividly. "And Mr. Kilmeny found her."
The sheriff's surprised eyes turned to her. "That's right, ma'am. He did. I dunno how you guessed it, but you've rung the bell. He found her and brought her down to the ranch. It just happened we had drapped in there ten minutes before. So we gathered him in handy as the pocket in your shirt. Before he could move we had the crawl on him."
The sheriff retired to the dining-room, whence came presently snatches of cheerful talk between the prisoner and his captors. In their company Jack Kilmeny was frankly a Western frontiersman.
"You passed close to me Wednesday night at the fork of Rainbow above the J K ranch. I was lying on a ledge close to the trail. You discussed whether to try Deer Creek or follow Rainbow to its headwaters," the miner said.
"That was sure one on us. Hadn't been for the kid, I don't reckon we ever would have took you," a deputy confessed.
"What beats me is why you weren't a hundred miles away in Routt County over in yore old stamping ground," another submitted.
"I had my reasons. I wasn't looking to be caughtanyhow. Now you've got me you want to watch me close," the prisoner advised.
"We're watching you. Don't make any mistake about that and try any fool break," Gill answered, quite undisturbed.
"He's the coolest hand I ever heard," Farquhar said to the party on the porch. "If I were a highwayman I'd like to have him for a partner."
"He's not a highwayman, I tell you," corrected Moya.
"I hope he isn't, but I'm afraid he is," India confided in a whisper. "For whatever else he is, Jack Kilmeny is a man."
"Very much so," the captain nodded, between troubled puffs of his pipe.
"And I'm going to stand by him," announced his sister with a determined toss of her pretty head.
Moya slipped an arm quickly around her waist. She was more grateful for this support than she could say. It meant that India at least had definitely accepted the American as a relative with the obligation that implied. Both girls waited for Ned Kilmeny to declare himself, for, after all, he was the head of the family. He smoked in silence for a minute, considering the facts in his stolid deliberate fashion.
The excitement of the girl he loved showed itself in the dusky eyes sparkling beneath the soft mass of blue-black hair, in the glow of underlying bloodthat swept into her cheeks. She hoped—oh, how she hoped!—that the officer would stand by his cousin. In her heart she knew that if he did not—no matter how right his choice might be in principle—she never would like him so well again. He was a man who carried in his face and in his bearing the note of fineness, of personal distinction, but if he were to prove a formalist at heart, if he were going to stickle for an assurance of his kinsman's innocence before he came to the prisoner's aid, Moya would have no further use for him.
When the sheriff presently came out Captain Kilmeny asked him if he might have a word with the prisoner.
"Sure. Anything you want to say to him."
The English officer drew his cousin aside and with some embarrassment tendered to his cousin the use of his purse in the event it might be needed for the defense.
Jack looked at him steadily with hard unflinching eyes. "Why are you offering this, captain?"
"I don't quite take you."
"I mean, what's your reason? Don't like it to get out that you have a cousin in the pen, is that it? Anxious to avoid a family scandal?" he asked, almost with a sneer.
The captain flushed, but before he could answer India flamed out. "You might have the decency to be ashamed of that, Jack Kilmeny."
Her cousin looked at the girl gravely, then back at her lean, clean-faced brother. "I am. Beg your pardon, captain. As for your offer, I would accept it if there were any need. But there isn't. The charges against me will fall flat."
"Deuced glad to hear it. Miss Dwight has just been telling us it would be all right."
India looked straight at Jack out of the steel-blue eyes that were so like his own. "I wasn't so sure of it myself, but Moya was. Nothing could shake her. She's a good friend."
"I had it sized up about that way," the miner replied. "But I've a notion Miss Kilmeny will stand the acid too. Anyhow, I'm much obliged to her."
The prisoner shook hands with both of his cousins, lifted a broad-brimmed gray felt hat from the rack, and delivered himself to the sheriff.
"All right, Gill."
India gave a little exclamation and moved toward the hatrack. Her hand fell upon a second hat, similar in appearance to the first, but much more worn and dust-stained. She opened her lips to speak and closed them without saying a word. For her eyes had met those of Moya and read there a warning.
Jack Kilmeny nodded a brisk farewell to Farquhar, smiled at Miss Dwight, and moved with his guards to the clump of trees where the horses hadbeen left. His eyes had looked for Joyce, but she was not at that moment in sight.
The last faint beat of the retreating hoofs died away. An awkward constraint settled upon the party left at the Lodge. It was impossible to discuss the situation openly, yet it was embarrassing to ignore the subject in the thoughts of all. After a decent interval they began to drop away, one by one, from the group. India followed Moya, and found that young woman in her room.
"What are you hiding?" Miss Kilmeny asked quickly.
Moya produced from her hatbox a gray sombrero and put it on the table. "I didn't know it was you—thought it might be Lady Jim," she explained.
"Why wasn't I to tell Jack Kilmeny that he had taken Ned's hat by mistake?" India wanted to know.
"Because it wasn't by mistake."
"Not by mistake! What would he want with another man's hat?"
"I'm not sure about that. Perhaps hedidn't want his own. You see, I had started myself to tell him about the mistake, but his eyes asked me plain as words not to speak."
"But why—why?" India frowned at the hat, her active brain busy. "It would be absurd for him to want Ned's hat. He must have had some reason, though."
"Don't they search prisoners before they lock them up?" Moya asked abruptly.
India shook her head. "I don't know. Do they?"
"Of course they do." Moya's eyes began to shine. "Now suppose there is something about that hat he didn't want them to see."
"How do you mean?" India picked up the hat and turned it round slowly. "It's worn and a bit disreputable, but he wouldn't care for that."
Moya found a pair of scissors in her work basket. With these she ripped off the outer ribbon. This told her nothing. Next she examined the inside. Under the sweat pad was a folded slip of paper. She waved it in excitement.
"What did I tell you?"
"But—if he is innocent—what could there be he wanted to hide?"
"I don't know." Moya unfolded the paper enough to see that there was writing in it. "Do you think we ought to read this?"
"I don't know," India repeated in her turn. "Perhaps it may be a message to you."
Moya's face lighted. "Of course that's it. He wanted to tell us something when the rest were not there, so he used this method."
Three cramped lines were penciled on the torn fragment of paper.
At wharf above camp.Twelve steps below big rock.In gunny sack three yards from shore.
Two pairs of puzzled eyes looked into each other.
"What can it mean?" India asked.
"I don't know, unless——"
"Unless what?"
"Can it be a direction for finding something?"
"But what? And why should it be hidden in his hat? Besides, he would have no chance to put it in there after he was captured."
"Then perhaps it isn't a message to me at all."
"That's what we must find out. 'At wharf above camp.' That probably means his fishing camp."
"What are you going to do, India?"
"I'm going to get Ned to help me find that gunny sack."
Moya found herself trembling. She did not know why. It was not doubt of her reckless friend, but none the less she was in a panic.
"Do you think we'd better?"
Miss Kilmeny looked at her in surprise. In general nobody came to decision more quickly than Moya.
"Of course. How else can we tell whether it is something he wants us to do for him?"
"When shall we look?"
"The sooner the better—to-night," answered theother girl immediately. "The wharf above the camp. It's not a quarter of an hour from here. I'll not sleep till I know what he means."
"Lady Jim," Moya reminded her.
"She needn't know. She can't object if we take Ned and go fishing for an hour."
Moya consulted her watch. "They'll be gathering for bridge pretty soon. Let's go now. We can be back in time for supper."
"Get into your fishing togs. I'll get Ned and we'll meet you on the west porch in a quarter of an hour."
Within the appointed time the three slipped away down the river bank trail as silently as conspirators. The captain was rather inclined to pooh-pooh the whole thing, but he was not at all sorry to share an adventure that brought him into a closer relationship with Moya Dwight.
"Must be this wharf," India said presently, as a bulky shadow loomed out of the darkness.
"Shouldn't wonder. Here's a big rock just below it. Didn't the paper say something about a rock?" asked the captain.
"Twelve steps below big rock, it says."
The soldier paced off the distance. "What now?"
"Three yards from the shore," called his sister. "There should be a gunny sack, whatever that is."
"Afraid he's spoofing us," Kilmeny said with alaugh as he moved out in his waders against the current. "Here I am. What's the next direction?"
India giggled. She was Irish enough to get the humorous side of things and could not help being frivolous even when she was greatly interested. "Now you look over your left shoulder at the moon and wish."
Her brother's high voice cut in. "I say. My foot's kicking something. Wait a jiff."
He braced his feet, dived suddenly down with one arm till his face touched the water, and grappled with his fingers for a hold on something lying between two rocks at the bottom. When he straightened again it was with an effort. He did not attempt to raise his burden from the stream, but waded ashore with it. Using both hands, he dragged his find to land.
"It's a sack," India cried excitedly.
The captain's eyes met those of Moya. His face was grave, but she was white to the lips. Both of them felt sure of what they would find in the sack.
"Open it," she told him tensely.
With his pocketknife Kilmeny cut the string that tied the sack. He drew out a heavy valise so full that it gaped. Silver and gold coins, as well as bills, filled it to the mouth. They had found the money stolen from the treasurer of the Gunnison County Fair association.
All three of them were sick at heart. Jack Kilmeny then was guilty, after all. The message in the hat had not been intended for them, but had been merely a note of identification of the spot. He had taken the captain's hat merely because he did not want the officers to find the directions under the sweat pad. He had in essence lied to Moya and to the cousins who had offered to stand shoulder to shoulder with him in his trouble.
To Moya the next hour was a nightmare. They returned to the Lodge and slipped into the house by way of a French window opening upon the deserted north porch. Kilmeny hid the sack of treasure in his trunk and divested himself of his fishing clothes. Presently he joined Moya and his sister on the front porch, where shortly they were discovered by Verinder in search of a fourth at bridge.
India, knowing how greatly her friend was shaken, volunteered to fill the table and maneuvered Verinder back into the living-room with her. The millionaire had vaguely the sense of a conspiracy against him and resented it, even though of late he had been veering from Moya to Joyce in his attentions.
Captain Kilmeny, left alone with the girl of his dreams, wisely said nothing. He was himself indignant, his family pride stung to the quick. His cousin was not only a thief but a liar. Born of a race of soldiers, with the traditions of family andof the army back of him for generations, the latter offense was the greater of the two. He understood something of how Miss Dwight felt. She had let herself become greatly interested in this vagabond cousin of his. Openly she had championed his cause. Now her feelings were wounded, her pride hurt, and her anger ablaze. The fellow's offense against her had been flagrant.
So far the captain had guessed correctly. Moya writhed like a bruised woodland creature. Her friendship had been abused. She had been as credulous as a simple country wench, while he no doubt had been laughing up his sleeve at her all the time. No longer had she any doubt as to his guilt. She visualized the hurried run for safety to camp, the swift disposal of the treasure in the river because of the close pursuit. When she lived over again that scene on Sunbeam the girl flogged her soul like a penitent. As one grinds defiantly on an ulcerated tooth, so she crushed her pride and dragged it in the dust.
But the wound was deeper even than this. To give herself in friendship impulsively was her temperament, though not many were judged worthy of such giving. This blue-eyed scamp had won her as no man ever had before. She had seen him through a glamour. Now his character stood stripped in its meanness. Her sweet trust was crushed. In the reaction that was upon her she craved rest andsafety. No longer had she any confidence in her own judgment. Against the advice of her friends she had been wayward and headstrong, so sure that she knew best.
Kilmeny, sitting beside her in the deep shadows cast by the wild cucumber vines, became aware that she was weeping silently. His heart bled for her. He had known her always buoyant, gallant as Galahad, vibrant of joy to the finger tips.
"I say, don't," he pleaded. It was impossible for him to voice adequately his feelings. Greatly daring, he let an arm rest across the shoulders that were being racked by suppressedpianissimosobs.
"You mustn't, you know. I can't stand it." And, again, "Please don't."
She gulped down the lump in her throat and turned upon him filmy eyes, the lashes of which were tangled with tears. This fine strong soldier represented the haven of rest toward which she was being driven. Had she never met his American cousin she knew that she would probably have accepted him in the end. The swift impulse swept her to anchor her craft for life in a safe harbor. She had tried rebellion, and that had left her spent and beaten. What she wanted now was safety, a rest from the turmoil of emotion.
"Do you still ... want me?" she asked lifelessly.
He could not on the instant take her meaning.Then, "Want you!" he cried in a low voice no words could have expressed fully. "Want you? Oh, my dear!"
"You know I don't love you ... not in one way," she told him naïvely. "Lady Jim says that will come. I don't know. Perhaps you won't want to take the risk."
She could see the desire of her leap to his honest eyes. "By God, I'll take my chance," he cried.
"You'll give me all the time I want—not push me too hard?"
"You shall set your own time."
Her dusky head was leaning wearily against the back of a wicker porch chair. From sheer fatigue her eyes fluttered shut. Her lover could see the round bird-like throat swell as she swallowed the lump that had gathered. Pity for her and love of her rose in him like a flood. He would have given anything to wrap her in his arms and fight away her troubles. But he knew it would be months before he could win the right to do this.
"Would you mind if ... if we didn't tell the others just yet?"
"It shall be as you say, Moya, dear."
She nodded languid thanks. "You're good. I ... I think I'll go to bed. I'm so tired."
He kissed the tips of her fingers and she vanished round the corner of the house.
Kilmeny sat down again and looked for longacross the moonlit river. His sweetheart had promised to marry him, but in how strange a fashion. He was to be her husband some day, but he was not yet her lover by a good deal. His imagination fitted another man to that rôle, and there rose before him the strong brown face of his cousin with its mocking eyes and devil-may-care smile.
His promised wife! He had despaired of winning her, and she had crept to him as a hurt child does to its mother. There was no exultation in his heart. Poor child! How sad and tired her eyes had been.
CHAPTER VIIITHE BAD PENNY AGAIN
Verinder strolled down to the river bank, where Joyce was fishing from the shore in a tentative fashion.
"I say, Miss Seldon, aren't you breaking the Sabbath?" he asked from the bank above, smiling down upon her with an attempt at archness.
She flashed at him over her shoulder a smile that had all the allure of lovely youth. "I'm only bending it. I haven't caught a single fish."
"Bending it! Oh, I say, that's rather rippin', you know."
She nodded her golden head. "Thanks."
"Casting is a horrid bore. You should be a fisher of men," he told her fatuously.
"If I could be sure I wouldn't catch one. But if I happened to, what would I do with him?"
"Do with him! Why, it depends on who you catch. If he's undersize unhook him gently and throw him back into the river. What!"
The gay smile, flashed sideways at him, was achallenge. "But it isn't always so easy to unhook them, I'm told."
"Not if one doesn't want to."
"You're telling me that I'm a flirt, aren't you?" she said suspiciously.
"I can't tell you anything along that line you don't know already."
"I've a good mind to get angry," she flung back, laughing.
"Don't do that. If it would help I can tell you a lot of nice things I think about you. My word, yes!"
Joyce shot one swift glance at him and saw that he was on the verge of waxing sentimental. That would never do. It was on the cards that she might have to marry Dobyans Verinder but she did not want him making love to her.
"Please don't take the trouble. It's really a matter of no moment."
The young woman made another cast.
"To you."
"I was thinking about me."
"You usually are, aren't you?"
She looked up with surprised amusement. Resentment had made him bold. This was the first spark of spirit she had shaken out of him and she had made him the victim of many moods.
"But I don't blame you for thinking about the most interesting person you know. I think aboutyou a lot myself. You're really rippin', you know."
Joyce groaned in spirit. He did that sort of thing as gracefully as a bear danced. To create a diversion she whipped back her line for a cast so that the flies snapped close to his ear.
"I say, be a bit careful," Verinder suggested.
"Oh, did I hook you?" she asked carelessly.
"I've been on your line for weeks."
"You'd better whisper it. Moya might hear," she advised roguishly.
Verinder flushed. The transfer of his attentions was still a sore subject with him. He hoped it would be generally understood that he had given up Miss Dwight of his own choice. He did not want it to get out that he had been jilted.
"The whole world is welcome to hear it. I'd advertise it in theTimesif it would do any good."
"I believe you are impudent," laughed the beauty.
"I know I'm imprudent."
"Oh!" She carefully dropped her leader in the riffles. "There's no law keeping you in this neighborhood, you know. Try India for a change."
"There's nothing to keep the trout on the line—except the hook."
Her smile told of lazy but amiable derision. "It's a great pity about you."
"Awf'ly glad you feel so. Some poet chap said that pity is akin to love."
"I think it would do you good to take a long walk, Mr. Verinder."
"With Miss Seldon?" he wanted to know cautiously.
"Alone," she told him severely. "It would be a rest."
"A rest for me—or for you?"
The dimples flashed into her soft cheeks again. "For both of us, perhaps."
"Thanks. It's rather jolly here." He put his hands in his trousers pockets and leaned against a tree.
"Hope you'll enjoy it. I'm going to find Moya." Miss Seldon reeled up, put her rod against the tree, and sauntered off with the lissom grace that was hers.
Verinder woke up. "Let me come too. On second thoughts I find I do need a walk."
She looked back at him saucily over her shoulder. "You may come if you won't talk until you're spoken to."
"Done, by Jove!"
They followed the trail a stone's throw in silence.
"Miss Dwight's always going off by herself. Seems to me she's a bit off her feed," Verinder suggested.
Joyce was amused. For a man who wanted it understood that only one girl in the world matteredto him he still appeared to take a good deal of interest in Moya.
"Seems dreamy and—er—depressed. What!" he continued.
"Perhaps she is in love," Joyce let herself suggest wickedly.
"I've thought of that, but 'pon my word! I can't think of a man."
"Why not Mr. Verinder?"
His eyeglass ogled her to make sure he was not being made game of, but the lovely face was very innocent.
"Can't be," he demurred with conventional denial.
"Captain Kilmeny, then."
"Hardly. I don't think he's quite her style of man."
"Perhaps with his cousin, the highwayman."
"Good heavens, no!"
She took on a look of horrified suspicion. "You don't think—surely it couldn't be—Oh, I do hope it isn't Lord Farquhar."
He stared at her through his monocle with his mouth open, then discovered that he had been sold as the laughter rippled into her face.
"Oh, I say! Jolly good one, that. Lord Farquhar, by Jove!" Yet his laughter rang flat. It always made him angry to find that they were "spoofing" him. He didn't like to be "got" in thebeastly traps these girls were always laying for him.
"There's Moya now—and there's a man with her," Joyce announced.
"By Gad, it's the highwayman!" Verinder gasped.
It was, though strictly speaking Jack Kilmeny was not yet with her, since she was still unaware of his presence. Moya was sitting on a mossy rock with a magazine in her hand, but she was not reading. By the look of her she was daydreaming, perhaps of the man who was moving noiselessly toward her over the bowlders.
Before she heard him he was close upon her. She looked around, and with a little cry got to her feet and stared at him, her hand on her fast beating heart.
Joyce waited to see no more.
"No business of ours," she announced to Verinder, and, without regard to his curiosity or her own, turned heel and marshaled him from the field.
"You!" Moya cried.
Kilmeny bowed. "The bad penny turned up again, Miss Dwight."
Scorn of him flashed in her dark eyes. She stood straight and rigid, but in spite of herself she breathed fast.
"You've forgotten your promise. You've lost faith again," he charged.
His impudence stirred contemptuous anger. "Iknow you now, sir," she told him with fine contempt.
"And you promised to believe in me." He said it quietly, with just a touch of bitterness in the reproach of his wistful voice.
The first hint of startled doubt came into her eyes. It was as if he had breathed into a marble statue the pulse of life. He had known her vivid as a thrush in song, a dainty creature of fire and dew. She stood now poised as it were on the edge of hope.
"How could I believe when I found your guilt on you? What right have you to ask it?"
"So you found the paper in the hat, did you?"
"Yes."
"Certain about my guilt this time, are you?"
He said it almost with a sneer, but nothing could crush the resurgent glow in her heart. Against the perilous and emotional climax which was growing on her she set her will in vain. Why was it that the mere presence of this man called to her so potently and shook her confidence in his guilt?
"We found the money," she explained, thinking to confound him.
"I guessed that. It was gone when I went to look for it this morning. I've come for it now."
His assurance amazed her. "Come for it!" she repeated. "It isn't here."
"No, I didn't expect to find it in your purse. But it is at the Lodge."
"No."
"Where, then?"
"I shan't tell you. The money will be returned to those from whom it was stolen."
He looked at her with hard, narrowed eyes. "It will be returned, will it? When?"
"To-day. Within a few hours."
"Who is going to return it?"
Moya had it on the tip of her tongue to tell, but pulled up in time. "I think we'll not go into that."
The American looked at his watch. The hands showed the hour to be 2:30. If the money was to be returned that day someone must already be on the way with it. He had seen his cousin, Captain Kilmeny, take the Gunnison road in a trap not half an hour earlier.
"So the captain is taking it back to-day?" he mused aloud, wary eyes on Moya's face.
A startled expression leaped to her countenance. She had told more than she had intended. "I didn't say so."
"I say so."
Beneath his steady gaze her lashes fell. He nodded, sure that he had guessed correctly.
"I intended to have a talk with you and straighten out some things," he went on. "But I find I haven'ttime now. We'll postpone it till to-morrow. I'll meet you here at ten o'clock in the morning."
"No," she told him.
The wave of hope had ebbed in her. Given the opportunity to explain the evidence against him, he had cared more to find out what they were doing with the stolen money. He had no time to save his good name.
"Ten in the morning. Remember. It's important. I want to see you alone. If I'm not on time wait for me."
That was his last word. He bowed, turned away almost at a run, and was lost in the small willows. Presently she heard the sound of a galloping horse. A minute later she caught a glimpse of it disappearing up Red Rock cañon. He was following the cutoff trail that led to Gunnison.
She wondered what was taking him away so abruptly. He had meant to stop, then had changed his mind. He had told her calmly she must meet him here to-morrow, and if he were late for the appointment she must wait. His impudence was enough to stagger belief. She would show him about that. If he wanted to see her he must come to the Lodge and face Lady Jim. Even then she would not see him. Why should she, since he was what he was?
Ah, but that was the crux of the whole matter! To look at him was to feel that whatever his faultsthey were not despicable ones. He was alive, so very much alive, and the look of him was that which an honest man should have. Had he proved his innocence and been released? Or had he broken prison, an alternative of which he was quite capable? And, guilty or innocent, what could be the explanation of his extraordinary demand that she should turn over to him the stolen money?
He had found her dumb and stricken with many hours of brooding over his guilt. At least he left her quick with questionings. She divined again the hint of a mystery. Something deeper than reason told her that the unraveling of it would prove him no villain.
One immediate duty alone confronted her. She must confess to Lady Farquhar that she had met and talked with him again. It was likely that she would be well scolded, but it was characteristic of her that she preferred to walk straight to punishment and get it over with. No doubt she had been too free with this engaging scamp. The rules of her set prescribed a straight and narrow road in which she must walk. The open fields beyond the hedges might blossom with flowers, but there could be no dalliance in them for her. She was to know only such people as had the password, only those trimmed and trained till there was no individuality left in them. From birth she had been a rebel, butan impotent one. Each revolt had ended in submission to the silken chains of her environment. Fret as she might, none the less she was as much a caged creature as Lady Jim's canary.