Chapter 20

animal activity--there's never been anything like it in the world." His eyes returned to Ben's face. "Ever hear of Gilbert, did you?"

"I live within twenty-three miles of him."

Sidwell looked interested. "What ranch, if I may ask?"

"The Right Angle Triangle we call it."

"Oh, yes," Sidwell nodded in recollection. "Rankin is the proprietor--a big man with a grandfather's-shay buckboard. I saw him while I was there."

Involuntarily one of Ben's long legs swung over the other. "That's the place! You have a good memory."

Sidwell smiled. "I couldn't help having in this case. He reminded me of the satraps of ancient Persia. He was monarch of all he surveyed."

Ben said nothing.

"He's still the big man of the country, I presume?"

"He is dead."

"Dead?"

"I said so."

The light of understanding came to the city man. "I see," he observed. "He is gone, and you--"

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Sidwell," interrupted the other, "but suppose we change the subject?"

Sidwell colored, then he laughed. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Blair. No offence was intended, I assure you. Mr. Rankin interested me, that was all."

Again Ben said nothing, and the conversation lapsed.

Meanwhile within doors another drama had been taking place. A very discomposed young lady had met Scotty just out of hearing.

"What made you stop Mr. Sidwell, papa?" she asked indignantly. "Why didn't you let him come in?"

"Because I didn't choose to," explained Scotty, bluntly.

"But I wanted him to," she said imperiously. "I don't care to see Ben to-night."

Her father looked at her steadily. "And I wish you to see him," he insisted. "You must be hypnotized to behave the way you're doing! You forget yourself completely!"

The brown eyes of the girl flashed. "And you forget yourself! I'm no longer a child! I won't see him to-night unless I wish to!"

Easy-going Scotty was aroused. His weak chin set stubbornly.

"Very well. You will see neither of them, then. I won't have a man insulted without cause in my own house. I'll tell them both you're sick."

"If you do," flamed Florence, "I'll never forgive you! You're--horrid, if you are my father. I--" She took refuge in tears. "Oh, you ought to be ashamed to treat your daughter so!"

The Englishman flicked a speck of ash off his lounging coat. "I _am_ ashamed," he admitted; "but not of what you suggest." He turned toward the door.

"Daddy," said a pleading voice, "don't you--care for me any more?"

An expression the daughter had never seen before, but one that ever after haunted her, flashed over the father's face.

"Care for you?" he exclaimed. "Care for you? That is just the trouble! I care for you--have always cared for you--too much. I have sacrificed my self-respect to humor you, and it's all been a mistake. I see it now too late."

For a moment the two looked at each other; then the girl brushed past him. "Very well," she said calmly, "if I must see them both, at least permit me to see them by myself."

The men on the porch arose as Florence appeared. Their manner of doing so was characteristic of each. Sidwell got to his feet languidly, a bit stiffly. He had not forgotten the past week. Ben Blair arose respectfully, almost reverently, unconscious that he was following a mere social form. Six months had passed since he had seen this little woman, and his soul was in his eyes as he looked at her.

Just without the door the girl halted, her color like the sunset. It was the city man she greeted first.

"I'm very glad to see you again," she said, and a dainty hand went out to meet his own.

Sidwell was human. He smiled, and his hand detained hers longer than was really necessary.

"And I'm happy indeed to have you back," he responded. "I missed you."

The girl turned to the impassive but observing Benjamin.

"I am glad to see you, too, Mr. Blair," she said, but the voice was as formal as the handshake. "Papa introduced you to Mr. Sidwell, I suppose?"

Her reserve was quite unnecessary. Outwardly, Ben was as coldly polite as she. He placed a chair for her deferentially and took another himself, while Sidwell watched the scene with interest. Somewhere, some time, if he lived, that moment would be reproduced on a printed page.

"Yes," responded Ben, "Mr. Sidwell and I have met." He turned his chair so that he and the girl faced each other. "You like the city, your new life, as well as you expected, I trust?"

They chatted a few minutes as impersonally as two chance acquaintances meeting by accident; then again Ben arose. "I judge you were going driving," he said simply. "I'll not detain you longer."

Florence melted. Such delicate consideration was unexpected.

"You must call again while you are in town," she said.

"Thank you, I shall," Ben responded.

Sidwell felt that he too could afford to be generous.

"If there's anything in the way of amusement or otherwise that I can do for you, Mr. Blair, let me know," he said, proffering his address. "I am at your service at any time."

Ben had reached the walk, but he turned. For a moment wherein Florence held her breath he looked steadily at the city man.

"We Western men, Mr. Sidwell," he said at last slowly, "are more or less solitaries. We take our recreation as we do our work, alone. In all probability I shall not have occasion to accept your kindness. But I may call on you before I leave." He bowed to both, and replaced his hat. A "good-night" and he was gone.

Watching the tall figure as it disappeared down the street, Sidwell smiled peculiarly. "Rather a positive person, your friend," he remarked.

Like an echo, Florence took up the word. "Positive!" The small hands pressed tightly together in the speaker's lap. "Positive! You didn't get even a suggestion of him by that. I saw a big prairie fire once. It swept over the country for miles and miles, taking everything clean; and the men fighting it might have been so many children in arms. I always think of it when I think of Ben Blair. They are very much alike."

The smile left Sidwell's face. "One can start a back-fire on the prairie," he said reflectively. "I fancy the same process might work successfully with Blair also."

"Perhaps," admitted Florence. The time came when both she and Sidwell remembered that suggestion.

But the subject was too large to be dropped immediately.

"Something tells me," Sidwell added, after a moment, "that you are a bit fearful of this Blair. Did the gentleman ever attempt to kidnap you--or anything?"

Florence did not smile. "No," she answered.

"What was it, then? Were you in love, and he cold--or the reverse?"

Florence dropped her chin into her hands. "To be frank with you, it was--the reverse; but I would rather not speak of it." She was silent for a moment. "You are right, though," she continued, rather recklessly, "when you say I'm afraid of him. I don't dare think of him, even. I want to forget he was ever a part of my life. He overwhelms me like sleep when I'm tired. I am helpless."

Unconsciously Sidwell had stumbled upon the closet which held the skeleton. "And I--" he queried, "are you afraid of me?"

The girl's great brown eyes peered out above her hands steadily.

"No; with us it is not of you I'm afraid--it's of myself." She arose slowly. "I'm ready to go driving if you wish," she said.