eways, he must surely be thrown. But in spite of
all he did not pull leather, he did not cease to ply spur and quirt,
and he was not thrown. It was a perfectly quiet horse he rode away
across the fields only three minutes later.

He did a man's work that day, all that day, until long after the red
sun had gone down. And when he came up from the corral to his supper,
if he was tired, if the muscles of his body ached, it did not show in
his steady stride or in his quiet eyes.

The suit-case which he had left in Indian Creek had been brought out
last week. He shaved himself and changed his clothes, putting on the
first white silk shirt he had worn for many a day. He even found an
old can of shoe-polish and touched up the pair of dusty shoes. And
then, laughing at the looks the men turned upon him, at the few
jesting remarks which they chose to make, he walked through the trees
and to the range-house.

The glow of electric lights through the wide-opened front doors ran
out across the lawn to meet him. Striding along the walk, his heels
crunching in the white gravel, he again marveled at the comfort, the
luxury even, which John Crawford had brought across the desert. He ran
lightly up the broad steps. Before he could ring Argyl was at the
door, her eyes quick to find his searchingly. He knew what they sought
to find in his. And when she put out her hand to him, swiftly,
impulsively, he trusted that they had found what they sought.

He followed her through the big front room and into the library. Here
there were many deep, soft leather chairs, here there was a blue
atmosphere of tobacco smoke, and here Mr. Crawford, immaculate in
white flannels, rose to meet him, his hand outstretched.

"How do you do, Conniston?" Mr. Crawford took his hand warmly, the
fine lines of his stern old face softening genially. "I was mighty
glad when Argyl told me that she had asked you over. Sit down, sit
down. Have something to smoke. Tell us about yourself, and how"--the
deep-set eyes twinkling--"you like the work?"

Conniston saw that Argyl had seated herself and dropped into one of
the big chairs himself, his whole body enjoying the luxury of it. At
his elbow was a little table with cigars and cigarettes. Mr. Crawford
laughed when he saw that Conniston, having glanced at the table, drew
out his own cheap muslin bag of tobacco and rough, brown papers.

"I'm getting used to them," Greek apologized. "And do you know that
I'm beginning to