leave. He was like a hen with one chick in his eagerness to supply
Dick's wants and in his reluctance to let Gordon out of his sight.

The registered letter was the one Valencia had sent him, inclosing the
one written by her grandfather to her father. Her contrite little note
went straight to his emotions. If not in words, at least in spirit, it
pleaded for pardon. Even the telegram she had wired implied an
undeniable interest in him. Dick went with a light heart to the
interview she had appointed him.

He slipped an arm through that of Davis. "Come on, you old bald-headed
chaperone. Didn't you hear the lady give you a bid to her party this
mo'ning? Get a move on you."

"Ain't you going to let her invite get cold before you butt in?"
retorted Steve amiably.

Valencia took away from the dining-room a heart at war with itself. The
sight of his gaunt face, carrying the scars of many wounds and the lines
marked by hunger, stirred insurgent impulses. The throb of passion and
of the sweet protective love that is at the bottom of every woman's
tenderness suffused her cheeks with warm life and made her eyes
wonderful. Out of the grave he had come back to her, this indomitable
foe who played the game with such gay courage. It was useless to tell
herself that she was plighted to a better man, a worthier one. Scamp he
might be, but Dick Gordon held her heart in the hollow of his strong
brown hand.

Some impulse of shyness, perhaps of reluctance, had restrained her from
wearing Manuel's ring at breakfast. But when she returned to her room
she went straight to the desk where she had locked it and put the
solitaire on her finger. The fear of disloyalty drove her back to her
betrothed from the enticement of forbidden thoughts. She must put
Richard Gordon out of her mind. It was worse than madness to be dreaming
of him now that she was plighted to another.

Gordon, coming eagerly to meet her, found a young woman more reserved,
more distant. He was conscious of this even before his eyes stopped at
the engagement ring sparkling on her finger, the visible evidence that
his rival had won.

"You have been treated cruelly, Mr. Gordon. Tell me that you are again
all right," she said, the color flooding her face at the searching
question of his eyes.

"Right as a rivet, thanks. It is to you I owe my freedom, I suppose."

"To Manuel," she corrected. "His judgment was better than mine."

"I can believe that. He didn't ride all night