unt was still unconsciously holding
the hand of welcoming while his late captors were riding away down the
cottonwood-shaded avenue. When he realized what he was doing he was as
nearly embarrassed as a self-contained young lawyer could well be. But
his impromptu hostess quickly set him at ease.

"You needn't make any explanations," she hastened to say, smiling up at
him and gently disengaging the hand which he was only now remembering
that he had forgotten to relinquish. "Naturally, I inferred that you
were in trouble, and that your safety depended in some sense upon my
answer. Were you in trouble?"

Blount perceived immediately how utterly impossible it would be to make
her, or any one else, understand the boyish impulse which had prompted
him to leave his train, or the curious difficulty into which the impulse
had precipitated him. So his explanation scarcely explained.

"I was on my way to a ranch--that is, to the capital--when these men
held me up," he stammered. "They--they mistook me for some one else, I
think, and for reasons best known to themselves they brought me here. If
you could direct me to some place where I can get a night's lodging--"

"There is nothing like a tavern within twenty miles of here," she broke
in; "nor is there any house within that radius which would refuse you a
night's shelter, Mr.--"

Blount made a quick dive for his card-case, found it, and hastened to
introduce himself by name. She took the bit of pasteboard, and, since
she scarcely glanced at the engraved line on it, he found himself wholly
unable to interpret her smile.

"The card is hardly necessary," she said; and then, to his complete
bewilderment: "You are very much like your father, Mr. Blount."

"You know my father?" he exclaimed.

She laughed softly. "Every one knows the senator," she returned, "and I
can assure you that his son is heartily welcome under this roof. Uncle
Barnabas"--to the ancient serving-man who was still hovering in the
background--"have Mr. Blount's horse put up and the blue room made
ready."

Blount followed his still unnamed hostess obediently when she led the
way to the lighted library in the wing of the great house.

"Uncle Barnabas will come for you in a little while," she told him,
playing the part of the gracious lady to the line and letter. "In the
meantime you must let me make you a cup of tea. I am sure you must be
needing it after having ridden so far. Take the easy-chair, and we can