nights and cold, bright days, a woman was hastening upon a jaded horse
toward the Echo Creek ranch house from the direction of El Toyon and
the railroad. She rode well, sitting straight in the heavy saddle, and
she rode hard. When the horse stumbled or floundered in the loose snow
she jerked angrily at the reins and cut sharply with her riding whip.

She entered the yard and rode up to the porch while Wanda was still
deep in Wayne's letter, while Dart was forming his lips to a soft,
silent whistle over a document which had passed from a drawer of the
safe into his caressing white fingers. The woman dismounted quickly
but a little stiffly as though from cold or fatigue, and fastening her
horse's reins with numb, gloved fingers hastened up the steps to the
living room door. She rapped loudly and Wanda, thinking that this was
but a further evidence of the fact that one of Mr. Dart's names was
Delicacy, called out, "Come in."

It was with a little start of surprise that Wanda saw her. A young
woman, twenty-five perhaps, of that rare sort of personality that
asserts itself in a flash. Exquisitely cloaked and furred, clad from
tiny boots to cap in black, her hair black, her eyes large and luminous
and black. Furs and cloak failed to hide the erect gracefulness of the
slender form, the poise of which as well as the carriage of the head
indicated an imperious disposition. The woman was undeniably
beautiful, her loveliness the delicately featured, perfectly chiselled
beauty that is called classic. The fur cap upon the small head was
snow encrusted and sat upon her cold beauty like a coronet; under it
the escaping tendrils of jet black hair were fashioned by the cold into
a glistening mesh of silver threads.

"This is the Leland place, isn't it?" was her abrupt greeting.

"Yes," Wanda replied, not yet quite recovered from the surprise of the
sudden vision.

"You are Wanda Leland, I suppose?" the cool, deep-throated voice went
on as the black eyes flashed critically from the girl's face to her
house dress, her pumps, the letter in her hands, her face again.

"Yes," Wanda repeated quietly. She disliked the little air this woman
had about her, the subtle hint of patronage and superiority, but her
natural wish to be hospitable to a stranger driven hither by the storm
made her seek to ignore this first impression.

"I'm Claire Hazleton. I've just ridden in from El Toyon. My horse is
done up, I'm afraid, or I shoul