d when she said:

"A friend is so kind as to place this car at my disposal every Sunday,
so I may make my week-end visits home in comfort."

Instinctively John felt that it was Gibson's machine.

As the automobile glided through the city traffic and out to the smooth
boulevards of the open country they spoke of Gibson's mysterious absence
during the past few days.

"He told me that business, something very important, called him away,"
she said. "He promised he would be back some time this week. I suppose
whatever has taken him away has to do with his work as a commissioner."

She wore the same quaintly beautiful white frock that John had so
admired when he first saw her at the lawn fete at the Barton Randolph
home. He saw that her eyes and hair were brown, her lips a coral red,
her skin faintly tinted olive. Her features were small and delicately
formed. Her feet were positively tiny and he marveled at the natural
curve of the high instep.

"Tell me," she said, "what do people think of Mr. Gibson as a
commissioner?"

He thought of Brennan's skepticism and the frankly expressed doubt of
other newspaper men of Gibson's motives.

"Generally he has the support of the city," he answered. "There are
some, however, who impute a selfish desire for political power to his
work."

"How ridiculous!" she exclaimed, laughing. "Hasn't he told you he has no
aspiration to become mayor or to be rewarded with anything else but the
satisfaction of knowing that he has done something for the city?"

"He has, and I believe him."

"Why did people doubt? He has told me that it will be a struggle and has
been so kind as to ask me to keep faith in him no matter what arises.
He knows that he will be attacked viciously by the element he is seeking
to drive from the city. I believe in him. I think it is such a splendid
thing he is doing. I knew that you would feel the same."

Brennan's words, "Some of them are out for glory and some of them play a
deeper game, sometimes it's a girl," came back to him. If it was for
her, to win her commendation and respect, that Gibson was fighting,
then, John thought, Gibson was a modern knight-errant riding into battle
against the forces of evil, a twentieth century Sir Galahad. And what a
"lady fair" to battle for!

"But let's forget all that for now," she said. "See, we are leaving the
city behind us. That is how I always feel when I'm on my way home again.
The ranch is home to me, you know. I was