l this to
my adobe shack in the construction camp."

Miss Craigmiles mocked him again.

"My window in the Alta Vista sleeper chanced to be open that night while
the train was standing in the Denver station. Didn't I hear Mr. Pelham
say that the watchword--your watchword--was to be 'drive,' for every
man, minute, and dollar there was in it?"

Ballard said, "Oh, good Lord!" under his breath, and a hot flush rose to
humiliate him, in spite of his efforts to keep it down. Now it was quite
certain that her word of welcome was not a mere coincidence. She had
overheard that brutal and uncalled-for boast of his about making love to
"the cow-punching princesses"; and this was his punishment.

It was a moment for free speech of the explanatory sort, but Miss
Cauffrey's presence forbade it. So he could only say, in a voice that
might have melted a heart of stone: "I am wholly at your mercy--and I am
your guest. You shouldn't step on a man when he's down. It isn't
Christian."

Whether she would have stepped on him or not was left a matter
indeterminate, since the members of the house-party were coming down by
twos and threes, and shortly afterward dinner was announced.

By this time Ballard was growing a little hardened to the surprises; and
the exquisitely appointed dining-room evoked only a left-over thrill.
And at dinner, in the intervals allowed him by Miss Dosia Van Bryck, who
was his table companion, there were other things to think of. For
example, he was curious to know if Wingfield's air of proprietorship in
Miss Craigmiles would persist under Colonel Craigmiles's own roof.

Apparently it did persist. Before the first course was removed Ballard's
curiosity was in the way of being amply satisfied; and he was saying
"Yes" and "No" like a well-adjusted automaton to Miss Van Bryck.

In the seating he had Major Blacklock and one of the Cantrell girls for
his opposites; and Lucius Bigelow and the other sharer of the common
Cantrell Christian name widened the gap. But the centrepiece in the
middle of the great mahogany was low; and Ballard could see over it only
too well.

Wingfield and Elsa were discussing playmaking and the playmaker's art;
or, rather, Wingfield was talking shop with cheerful dogmatism, and Miss
Craigmiles was listening; and if the rapt expression of her face meant
anything.... Ballard lost himself in gloomy abstraction, and the colours
of the electric spectrum suddenly merged for him into a greenish-