Stephen O'Mara, weatherbeaten hat in hand, was standing
there in her path, peering steadily at the stucco and timber lodge
alight from end to end like a huge and sprawling glow-worm.
Even in that first moment when she stopped and caught her breath,
audibly, from sheer surprise, the girl sensed the indecision in the
attitude of the man before her. But she could not know that it was not
a thing of the moment--that irresolution; could not know that
throughout the week Steve had periodically abused himself for his
inability to settle the question once and for all, and leave his brain
free for more important things. Just as often as he told himself that
he would not go, he had found himself reopening the mental discussion,
and yet--and strangely enough--it was not the recollection of Barbara's
repeated invitations, or even her distress over Garry Devereau, who had
been ceaselessly in his thoughts ever since she had spoken of him,
which finally achieved the decision. An insistent desire again to meet
the Honorable Archibald Wickersham in the end led him to request Fat
Joe to hook up the team, that day at noon, for the long drive down
river. With Steve himself handling the reins, they had rolled the
thirty miles at a speed which might have mildly surprised Fat Joe had
he not been accustomed to putting two and two together to make six or
eight or more.
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