er.
"It's because you were sick, I reckon. I wish you'd tell me as close as
you can where you left that grip of yours. You said it was under a bush
where a rabbit was sitting. I'd like to find the grip--but I'm afraid
that rabbit has done moved!"

"Oh, Mr. Warfield and I found it, thank you. The rabbit had moved, but I
sort of remembered how the road had looked along there, and we hunted
until we discovered the place. Dad has driven in after my other luggage
to-day--and I believe I must be getting home. I was only out for a
little ride."

She thanked him again for the trouble he had taken and rode away. Lone
turned off the trail and, picking his way around rough outcroppings of
rock, and across unexpected little gullies, headed straight for the ford
across Granite Creek and home. Brit Hunter's girl, he was thinking, was
even nicer than he had pictured her. And that she could believe in the
nightmare was a vast relief.

CHAPTER SEVEN

THE MAN AT WHISPER

Brit Hunter finished washing the breakfast dishes and put a stick of
wood into the broken old cook-stove that had served him and Frank for
fifteen years and was feeling its age. Lorraine's breakfast was in the
oven, keeping warm. Brit looked in, tested the heat with his gnarled
hand to make sure that the sour-dough biscuits would not be dried to
crusts, and closed the door upon them and the bacon and fried potatoes.
Frank Johnson had the horses saddled and it was time to go, yet Brit
lingered, uneasily conscious that his habitation was lacking in many
things which a beautiful young woman might consider absolute
necessities. He had seen in Lorraine's eyes, as they glanced here and
there about the grimy walls, a certain disparagement of her
surroundings. The look had made him wince, though he could not quite
decide what it was that displeased her. Maybe she wanted lace curtains,
or something.

He set the four chairs in a row against the wall, swept up the bits of
bark and ashes beside the stove, made sure that the water bucket was
standing full on its bench beside the door, sent another critical glance
around the room, and tiptoed over to the dish cupboard and let down the
flowered calico curtain that had been looped up over a nail for
convenience. The sun sent a bright, wide bar of yellow light across the
room to rest on the shelf behind the stove where stood the salt can, the
soda, the teapot, a box of matches and two pepper cans, one empty and
the other