ng in Los Angeles now know of the sleepy little old
town it used to be. How little we know or seem to care to know of the
old days, the days of adventure and romance. For me, my father's stories
of old times never grow old."

It was as John thought. She was an "old-fashioned" girl. How refreshing
she was, how different from the girls he saw on Broadway. She was the
girl he had dreamed of. This "girl of his dreams" had been a vague
picture, but he realized now that she was the girl who was beside him.

He recalled how bitterly he had felt toward her when he left the Barton
Randolph lawn fete, how he had cursed himself as a fool for ever having
told her she was beautiful. He wondered if Gibson had told her of seeing
him in the ring at Vernon, if they had ever spoken of him at all. He
could not think of her now as pitying him as he had when he berated
himself after first having met her.

Thoughts of Gibson and Brennan came back into his mind. He believed more
than ever that Gibson was sincere. He could not force himself to believe
that Gibson would intentionally violate the trust and faith Consuello
had placed in him. He knew now that she cared for Gibson, perhaps loved
him. There was no doubt that Gibson was in love with her. Brennan was
right in one thing, that Gibson was working to win Consuello's
admiration, but he was wrong, as he had confessed was possible, in
suspecting Gibson of a greed for power simply for power's sake.

Where was Gibson, anyway? What was he doing? What would be his next
move? Would the mayor remove Chief Sweeney at his demand?

Their machine turned abruptly into a side road, shaded by widespreading
walnut trees.

"We're nearly home," Consuello said.

On either side were orchard trees. The air was quiet, cool. Hedges of
pink Cherokee roses lined the road. The machine stopped beside a stretch
of closely cropped lawn. On the wide veranda of the Carrillo home John
caught his first glimpse of Consuello's father and mother, seated
restfully in porch chairs. He saw both had snow white hair.

"Here we are--there's daddy and mamma," Consuello said, waving to them.

They started across the lawn to the house, Consuello skipping a few
steps ahead of him. He thought her more beautiful than ever before as
she danced before him clearly outlined in her white frock against the
deep green of the grass.

CHAPTER V

In the cool of the evening, after dinner, they sat on the veranda
listening to t