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“I imagine I couldn’t help it if I were to try,” she said. They were in the path of the light from the window, and he saw the strange little smile on her face. “I think I’ll lie down again. Won’t you find a place to sleep, Mr. Rollins? I can’t bear the thought of depriving you–“

“I am the slave of your darkness,” he said gravely.

She left him, and he lit another cigar. Daylight came at last to break up his thoughts, and then his tired eyes began to look for the man and buggy. Fatigued and weary, he sat upon his steamer trunk, his back to the wall. There he fell sound asleep.

He was awakened by some one shaking him gently by the shoulder.

“You are a very sound sleeper, Mr. Rollins,” said a familiar voice, but it was gay and sprightly. He looked up blankly, and it was a full half-minute before he could get his bearings.

A young woman with a purple parasol stood beside him, laughing merrily, and at her side was a tall, dark, very good-looking young man.

“I couldn’t go without saying good-by to you, Mr. Rollins, and thanking you again for the care you have taken of me,” she was saying. He finally saw the little gloved hand that was extended toward him. Her companion was carrying her jacket and the little travelling-bag.

“Oh–er–good-by, and don’t mention it,” he stammered, struggling to his feet. “Was I asleep?”

“Asleep at your post, sir. Mr. Dudley–oh, this is Mr. Dudley, Mr. Rollins–came in ten minutes ago and found–us–both–asleep.”

“Isn’t it lucky Mr. Dudley happens to be an honest man?” said Rossiter, in a manner so strange that the smile froze on the face of the other man. The unhappy barrister caught the quick glance that passed between them, and was vaguely convinced that they had been discussing him while he slept. Something whispered to him that they had guessed the nature of his business.

“My telegram was not delivered to him until this morning. Wasn’t it provoking?” she was saying.

“What time is it now?” asked Rossiter.

“Half-past seven,” responded Dudley rather sharply. His black eyes were fastened steadily upon those of the questioner. “Mr. Van Haltford’s man came in and got Miss Dering’s telegram yesterday, but it was not delivered to me until a neighbor came to the house with both the message and messenger in charge. Joseph had drunk all the whisky in Fossingford.

“Then there’s no chance for me to get a drink, I suppose,” said Rossiter with a wry smile.

“Do you need one?” asked Miss Dering saucily.

“I have a headache.”

“A pick-me-up is what you want,” said Dudley coldly.

“My dear sir, I haven’t been drunk,” remonstrated Rossiter sharply. His hearers laughed and he turned red but cold with resentment.

“See, Mr. Rollins, I have smoothed out your clothes and folded them,” she said, pointing to her one-time couch. “I couldn’t pack them in your trunk because you were sitting on it. Shall I help you now?”

“No, I thank you,” he said ungraciously. “I can toss ’em in any old way.”

He set about doing it without another word. His companions stood over near the window and conversed earnestly in words too low for him to distinguish. From the corner of his eye he could see that Dudley’s face was hard and uncompromising, while hers was eager and imploring. The man was stubbornly objecting to something, and she was just as decided in an opposite direction.

“He’s finding fault and she’s trying to square it with him. Oh, my beauties, you’ll have a hard time to shake off one Samuel Rossiter. They’re suspicious–or he is, at least. Some one has tipped me off to them, I fancy.”

“I’m sorry they are so badly mussed, Mr. Rollins, but they did make a very comfortable bed,” she said, walking over to him. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were gleaming. “You are going to Eagle Nest to-day?”

“Just as soon as I can get a conveyance. There is a stage-coach at nine, Miss Dering.”