weighted her limbs. In the end she went back
to bed and sent for India.

"I'm not feeling fit, dear. Would you mind if I beg off?" she asked with
a wan smile.

Her friend took in keenly the big deep-pupiled eyes ringed with
weariness. "I don't believe you've slept a wink, Moya. Of course you
needn't go. Shall I stay with you? I don't really care about going. I'm
about fed up with Dobyans Verinder."

But Moya would not hear of this. She protested so much that India saw it
would be a greater kindness to leave her alone.

"You must try to sleep again, dear." India moved about, darkening the
windows and shaking up the pillows.

"Yes, I will. I'm all right, you know."

Left to herself, Moya tried to sleep. It was no use. She was wide awake,
beyond hope of another nap. No sooner had the voices of the riders died
in the distance than she was dressing feverishly. She told herself that
she would go outdoors somewhere with a book and rest. Otherwise Lady
Farquhar would be asking questions.

Fisher brought her some fruit, a cup of coffee, and a roll. Moya drank
the coffee and ate the fruit, after which she went out into the crisp
Colorado sunlight. By her watch it was now 9:50.

She made an elaborate pretense with herself of hesitating which way to
go. Her thoughts, her eyes, and at last her footsteps turned toward the
grove where yesterday Jack Kilmeny had surprised her. But she was too
used to being honest with herself to keep up the farce. Stopping on the
trail, she brought herself to time.

"You're going to meet that outlaw, Moya Dwight. You said you wouldn't,
but you are going. That's why you got out of that ride. No use fibbing
to yourself. You've no more will power than a moth buzzing around a
candle flame."

So she put it to herself, frankly and contemptuously. But no matter how
she scorned herself for it there was not in her the strength to turn her
back on her temptation. She had always prided herself on knowing her own
mind and following it, but the longing in her to hear this man's
justification was more potent than pride. Slowly her reluctant steps
moved toward the grove.

Long slants of morning sunlight filtered through the leaves of the
cottonwoods so that her figure was flaked with a shifting checkerboard
of shadow and shine. She sauntered forward, looking neither to the right
nor the left, expecting every instant to hear his cheery impudent
greeting.

It did not come. She stole sidelong looks here