m searchingly, and something in Keith's clean-cut face
seemed to bring reassurance, confidence in the man.

"I am not afraid," she answered, coming toward him around the short
table. "Only it is so lonely here, and you startled me, bursting in
without warning. But you look all right, and I am going to believe your
story. What is your name?"

"Keith--Jack Keith."

"A cowman?"

"A little of everything, I reckon," a touch of returning bitterness
in the tone. "A plainsman, who has punched cattle, but my last job was
government scout."

"You look as though you might be more than that," she said slowly.

The man flushed, his lips pressing tightly together. "Well, I--I may
have been," he confessed unwillingly. "I started out all right, but
somehow I reckon I just went adrift. It's a habit in this country."

Apparently those first words of comment had left her lips unthinkingly,
for she made no attempt to reply; merely stood there directly facing
him, her clear eyes gazing frankly into his own. He seemed to actually
see her now for the first time, fairly--a supple, slender figure, simply
dressed, with wonderfully excessive brown eyes, a perfect wealth of
dark hair, a clear complexion with slight olive tinge to it, a strong,
intelligent face, not strictly beautiful, yet strangely attractive, the
forehead low and broad, the nose straight, the lips full and inclined to
smile. Suddenly a vague remembrance brought recognition.

"Why, I know you now."

"Indeed!" the single word a note of undisguised surprise.

"Yes; I thought you looked oddly familiar all the time, but couldn't for
the life of me connect up. You're Christie Maclaire."

"Am I?" her eyes filled with curiosity.

"Of course you are. You needn't be afraid of me if you want it kept
secret, but I know you just the same. Saw you at the 'Gaiety' in
Independence, maybe two months ago. I went three times, mostly on your
account. You've got a great act, and you can sing too."

She stood in silence, still looking fixedly at him, her bosom rising
and falling, her lips parted as if to speak. Apparently she did not know
what to do, how to act, and was thinking swiftly.

"Mr. Keith," she said, at last in decision, "I am going to ask you to
blot that all out--to forget that you even suspect me of being Christie
Maclaire, of the Gaiety."

"Why, certainly; but would you explain?"

"There is little enough to explain. It is sufficient that I am here
alone with you. Whe