ed for a mere friendly commonplace if
it had not been for the rather curiously worded telegram. But it was a
goodly portion of Gantry's business in life to put two and two together,
and that phrase in the senator's message about a woman's apron-string
interested him. Moreover, it was subtly suggestive.

"Ever meet your father's--er--the present Mrs. Blount, Evan?" he asked.

"No." Blount may have been Western-born, but the chilling discouragement
he could crowd into the two-letter negation spoke eloquently of his
Eastern training.

Gantry was rebuffed but not disheartened.

"She is a mighty fine woman," he ventured.

"So I have been given to understand." This time Blount's reply was icy.
But now Gantry's eyes were twinkling and he pressed his advantage.

"You'll have to reckon pretty definitely with her if you go out to the
greasewood country, Evan. Next to your father, she is the court of last
resort; indeed, there are a good many people who insist that she _is_
the court--the power behind the throne, you know."

There is one ditch out of which the most persistent and gladsome mocker
may not drive his victim, and that is the ditch of silence. Blount said
nothing. Nevertheless, Gantry tried once more.

"Not interested, Evan?"

Blount turned and looked his companion coldly in the eyes.

"Not in the slightest degree, Dick. Will you take that for your answer
now, and remember it hereafter?"

"Sure," laughed the railroad man. And then, to round out the forbidden
topic by adding worse to bad: "I didn't know it was a sore spot with
you. How should I know? But, as I say, you'll have to reckon with her
sooner or later, and--"

"Let's talk of something else," snapped Blount.

Gantry found a match and relighted his cigar. When he began again he was
still thinking of the "apron-string" clause in the senator's telegram.

"I can't understand how any man with Western blood in his veins could
ever be content to marry and settle down in this over-civilized neck of
woods," he remarked, looking down upon the parked automobiles and around
at the country-club evidences of the civilization.

"Can't you?" smiled Blount, with large lenience. One of the things the
civilization had done for him was to make him good-naturedly tolerant of
the crudeness of the outlander.

"No, I can't," asserted the Westerner. Then he added: "Of course, I
don't know the Eastern young woman even by sight. She may be all that is
lovely, desirable,