With the name, one hand made swift movement of deprecation. "Pardon if I mistake, but I take it you're Camilla Maurice?" "Yes, I'm Camilla Maurice." "Quite so! You see, Ichabod and I were old chums together in college--all that sort of thing; consequently I've always wanted to meet--" The woman stood up. Her face still was very white, but her chin did not tremble now. "Let's stop this farce," she insisted. "What is it you wish?" The man in the buggy again made a motion of deprecation. "I was just about to say, that happening to be in town, and incidentally hearing the name, I wondered if it were possible.... But, pardon, I haven't introduced myself. Allow me--" and he bowed elaborately. "Arnold, Asa Arnold.... You've heard Ichabod mention my name, perhaps?" The woman held up her hand. "Again I ask, what do you wish?" "Since you insist, first of all I'd like to speak a moment with Ichabod." His face changed suddenly. "For Heaven's sake, Eleanor, if he must alter his name, why did he choose such a barbaric substitute as Ichabod?" "Were he here"--evenly--"he'd doubtless explain that himself." "He's not here, then?" No banter in the voice now. "Never fear"--quickly--"he'll return." A moment they looked into each other's eyes; challengingly, as they had looked unnumbered times before. "As you suggest, Eleanor," said the man, slowly, "this farce has gone far enough. Where may I tie this horse? I wish to speak with you." Camilla pointed to a post, and silently went toward the house. Soon the man followed her, stopping a moment to take a final puff at his cigar before throwing it away. Within the tiny kitchen they sat opposite, a narrow band of warm spring sunshine creeping in at the open door separating them. The woman looked out over the broad prairie, her color a trifle higher than usual, the lids of her eyes a shade nearer together--that was all. The man crossed his legs and waited, looking so small that he seemed almost boyish. In the silence, the drone of feeding poultry came from the back-yard, and the sleepy breathing of the big collie on the steps sounded plainly through the room. A minute passed. Neither spoke. Then, with a shade of annoyance, the man shifted in his chair. "I thought, perhaps, you'd have something you wished to say. If not, however--" He paused meaningly. "You said a moment ago, you wished to speak to _me_." "As usual, you make everything as difficult as possible." The shade of annoyance became positive. "Such being the case, we may as well come to the point. How soon do you contemplate bringing this--this incident to a close?" "The answer to that question concerns me alone." An ordinary man would have laughed; but Asa Arnold was not an ordinary man--not at this time. "As your husband, I can't agree with you." Camilla Maurice took up his words, quickly. "You mistake. You're the husband of Eleanor Owen. I'm not she." The man went on calmly, as though there had been no interruption.