for his wife, just where he had flung it down at the moment of her
entrance.

"Quite a few," he said.

The unsmiling nature of his response had caught Elvine's attention.
But she picked up her letters and glanced hastily through them.

A moment later her eyes came back to his face.

"Aren't you going to finish yours?" she inquired.

She was seeking the meaning of that suddenly banished smile.

It was almost with eagerness that the man caught at the opportunity.

"It's from Bud, and--I guess it's important. I've only two or three
pages more."

He picked the letter up and sorted the sheets into order. Elvine
watched him. She wanted to ask a dozen questions. But she put none of
them.

"He's your partner," was all she said.

"Yep," he nodded, with his eyes on the pages.

Then Elvine voiced something of her real feelings of the moment.

"I just hate mail," she said, with what seemed unnecessary force, as
she began to draw on her gloves. "It always worries me to death. I
think it scares me. Makes me think of death, or disaster, or--or bills
and things." She laughed. "Maybe it's my pessimistic nature makes me
feel that way. When things are all sunshiny and fine, why, it kind of
feels to me there are clouds around. Nasty, mean, hateful shadows
lurking, full of----"

"Hell for some one, eh?"

There was a wry twist to the man's lips as he smiled his reply.

"Guess that's how it is with mine," he went on. "I'll just read these
pages, and then we'll get going. Eh?"

The woman's watchful eye smiled assent and she continued to draw her
gloves on. But her observation of him seemed to gather intensity the
moment he became absorbed in the clumsy, unskilled handwriting.

The last vestige of his smile had gone. His fair brows had knitted in
a troubled frown. He seemed to read eagerly but intently, absorbed to
an unusual degree.

She realized the seriousness of that letter. And for some curious
reason alarm supervened. He had spoken of it easily, but his manner of
reading denied his spoken word.

The silent moments irked her. The rustle of the paper in his hands. A
feeling of foreboding grew, a feeling she knew was foolish, but which
at the same time was irresistible. She found herself speculating as to
the contents of the letter. She strove to review all the possibilities
which the great Obar Ranch could offer for disaster. And her mind
drifted back over years to a memory that gave her not