But he chose the
ground at her feet. And after he had disposed his long length to his
liking he answered her hurried question--answered it with an amiably
lazy deliberation that promised a sure return to a topic of his own
choosing, in his own good time.
"No," he stated, and there was something lugubrious in the baldness of
the statement. "He found me. And it was the biggest stroke of luck
that he did. I grow more and more lucky this morning, wouldn't you say
so?"
The question was quite innocently direct. No, decidedly he was not
discomfited--not ill at ease at all! Apparently he found it much
easier to look at her than at any of the points of interest in the
landscape toward which her glances persisted in flitting. While he
marveled, without any manifestations of sorrow whatever, at the curve
of her throat and the satin texture of that cheek turned toward him, he
told her drawlingly all there was to tell of the night before. And
after a time Barbara forgot her warm face and the too plain message
there in his eyes, in her growing excitement over that recitation.
When he stopped her first question instinctively pounced upon the one
detail he had purposely withheld.
"But you must have an inkling as to the man's identity," she cried.
"Why, you've got to find that out, before he does more harm next time.
Haven't you a suspicion, even?"
One foot swung free; she leaned forward in her eagerness, a slender and
entirely boyish figure in diminutive breeches and boots and
straight-lined coat.
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