The small figure stiffened, the dainty chin tilted in the air.

"I defy you to tell me how you can force me to go!"

It was the supreme moment, but Benjamin Blair showed no trace of
excitement or of passion. His folded arms remained passive across his
chest.

"Florence Baker, did I ever lie to you?"

The girl's lip trembled. She knew now what to expect.

"No," she said.

"You are quite sure?"

"Yes, I am quite sure."

"Did I ever say I would do anything that I did not do?"

The girl had an all but irrepressible desire to cry out, to cover her
face like a child. A flash of anger at her inability to maintain her
self-control swept over her.

"No," she admitted. "I never knew you to break your word."

"Very well, then," still no haste, no anger,--only the relentless calm
which was infinitely more terrible than either. "I will tell you why of
your own choice you will go with me. It is because you value the life of
Clarence Sidwell; because, as surely as I have not lied to you or to any
human being in the past, there is no power on earth that can otherwise
keep me away from him an hour longer."

Realization came instantaneously to Florence Baker and blotted out
self-consciousness. The nervous tension vanished as fog before the sun.

"You would not do it," she said, very steadily. "You could not do it!"

Ben Blair said not a word.

"You could not," repeated the girl swiftly; "could not, because
you--love me!"

One of the man's hands loosened in an unconscious gesture.

"Don't repeat that, please, or trust in it," he answered. "You misled me
once, but you can't mislead me again. It is because I love you that I
will do what I said."

There was but one weapon in the arsenal adequate to meet the emergency.
With a sudden motion, the girl came close to him.

"Ben, Ben Blair," her arms flashed around the man's neck, the brown
eyes--moist, sparkling--were turned to his face, "promise me you will
not do it." The dainty throat swelled and receded with her short quick
breaths. "Promise me! Please promise me!"

For a second the rancher did not stir; then, very gently, he freed
himself and moved a step backward.

"Florence," he said slowly, "you do not know me even yet." He drew out
his big old-fashioned silver watch, once Rankin's. "You still have four
minutes to get ready--no more, no less."

Silence like that of a death-chamber fell over the bright little
dining-room. From the outside came the sound of M