vidently her father had told her more than she cared to relate.
Fairchild caught the inflection in her voice but disregarded it.

"I owe you an apology," he said bluntly.

"For what?"

"Last night. I could n't resist it--I forgot for a moment that you
were there. But I--I hope that you 'll believe me to be a gentleman,
in spite of it."

She smiled up at him quickly.

"I already have had proof of that. I--I am only hoping that you will
believe me--well, that you 'll forget something."

"You mean--"

"Yes," she countered quickly, as though to cut off his explanation.
"It seemed like a great deal. Yet it was nothing at all. I would feel
much happier if I were sure you had disregarded it."

Fairchild looked at her for a long time, studying her with his serious,
blue eyes, wondering about many things, wishing that he knew more of
women and their ways. At last he said the thing that he felt, the
straightforward outburst of a straightforward man:

"You 're not going to be offended if I tell you something?"

"Certainly not."

"The sheriff came along just after you had made the turn. He was
looking for an auto bandit."

"A what?" She stared at him with wide-open, almost laughing eyes.
"But you don't believe--"

"He was looking for a man," said Fairchild quietly. "I--I told him
that I had n't seen anything but--a boy. I was willing to do that
then--because I could n't believe that a girl like you would--" Then
he stumbled and halted. A moment he sought speech while she smiled up
at him. Then out it came: "I--I don't care what it was. I--I like
you. Honest, I do. I liked you so much when I was changing that tire
that I did n't even notice it when you put the money in my hand.
I--well, you 're not the kind of a girl who would do anything really
wrong. It might be a prank--or something like that--but it would n't
be wrong. So--so there 's an end to it."

Again she laughed softly, in a way tantalizing to Robert Fairchild, as
though she were making game of him.

"What do you know about women?" she asked finally, and Fairchild told
the truth:

"Nothing."

"Then--" the laugh grew heartier, finally, however, to die away. The
girl put forth her hand. "But I won't say what I was going to. It
would n't sound right. I hope that I--I live up to your estimation of
me. At least--I 'm thankful to you for being the man you are. And I
won't forget!"

And once more her hand had rested in his,--a smal