entered his head to do--one might regretfully decline with thanks."

"Amen! In the meantime God lead your grace by the hand, as old Bacon
says." He brought his heels together, bowed over her fingers, and kissed
them with exaggerated old-fashioned gallantry.

"Who's being romantic now?" she wanted to know gayly.

CHAPTER VII

MOYA'S HIGHWAYMAN

Dinner at the Lodge was just finished. It was the one hour of the day
when anything like formality obtained. Each one dropped into breakfast
when he or she pleased. Luncheon rarely found them together. But Lady
Jim insisted that dinner should be a civilized function. Unless there
was to be night fishing the whole party usually adjourned from the
dining-room to the river-front porch, where such members of it as
desired might smoke the postprandial cigar or cigarette. To-night nobody
cared to get out rod and line. In an hour or so they would return to the
living-room for bridge.

Voices drifted up the trail and presently riders came into sight. They
halted among the trees, where one dismounted and came forward, his
trailing spurs jingling as he walked.

He bowed to his audience in general, and again and more particularly to
Lady Farquhar.

"Evening, ma'am. My name's Gill--sheriff of this county. I hate to
trouble you, but my men haven't had a bite to eat since early this
mo'ning. Think we could get a snack here? We'll not get to Gunnison till
most eleven."

Lady Farquhar rose. "I'll have the cook make something for you. How
many?"

"Six. Much obliged. Just anything that's handy."

Sheriff Gill beckoned to the men in the trees, who tied their horses and
presently came forward. All but one of them were heavily armed. That one
walked between a 30-30 and a 32 special carbine. It was observable that
the men with the rifles did not lift their eyes from him.

Moya felt her heart flutter like that of a caged bird. The blood ebbed
from her lips and she swayed in her seat. The prisoner was Jack Kilmeny.
Farquhar, sitting beside the girl, let his hand fall upon hers with a
comforting little pressure.

"Steady!" his voice murmured so that she alone heard.

Yet his own pulse stirred with the sheer melodrama of the scene. For as
the man came forward it chanced that the luminous moonbeams haloed like
a spotlight the blond head and splendid shoulders of the prisoner. Never
in his gusty lifetime had he looked more the vagabond enthroned. He was
coatless, and the strong mus