her's great luck.

"There's not a man that wouldn't give up a big slice to get him for a
manager," he said. "He's in right, too. He's the ace!"

"Huh!" remarked Blue Jeans. Indeed, Blue Jeans baffled him.

And when Devereau arrived in Estabrook on a train twenty minutes late,
Blue Jeans was not there to keep the appointment which Larrabie, duly
aware of the Easterner's importance, had arranged.

"Devereau'll be taking you East, likely," he had surmised. So waiting
not an instant past the hour when he was scheduled to arrive, Blue
Jeans had gone, stricken with homesickness at the thought of leaving
her, to see Girl o' Mine. It took him twenty miles down the line, but
he'd made the appointment with her before he knew Devereau was coming,
anyhow, and he'd keep it. Therefore Devereau--but you've guessed it.
Devereau is Fox-face of the private car. Devereau is the toad.

It was dark at the end of the platform. He could not see that her eyes
were dilated. He laid his hand upon her. She couldn't run; her legs
felt frozen and useless.

"No hurry, dearie," said Devereau. "Let's talk this over. Maybe
you'll be glad you missed your train."

But Blue Jeans, who had landed lightly on the gravel, saw what Devereau
had missed. He saw that Tweed-Suit was afraid--that she was numbed
with fear. His single back-hand thrust sent Devereau spinning under a
truck.

"Your train?"

"Yes."

"Give me your bag."

She obeyed him. They had told her that the train did not wait very
long. His hand found her arm, a different touch than Devereau's.

"Now run," he ordered.

They found most of the vestibules already closed; then one far down
still open. So they made it, though he had to toss the bag and fairly
lift her on. And it was done so swiftly that it was a full half minute
before she caught her breath.

"Oh, thank you!" she exclaimed then.

The porter was fussing with her bag, and her fervor overwhelmed him.
But her next words were a shock.

"I--I want to get off," she blurted.

The porter shook his head; he had expected better from her, but all
women were riddles.

"We's rolling now, ma'am," he answered. "No stop for two hundred
miles."

That night Cecille Manners--Tweed-Suit will no longer serve--lay in her
berth and watched the stars reel by. She had misjudged the west and
come away too soon; she knew that now. She put her hand upon her arm.
No, that wasn't the way it had felt; it had been strong, i