“Give them the word to go, Jastrow, and let's get out of heah,” he commanded. And when the secretary had vanished the Rajah made his explanations to all and sundry. “I've been obliged in a manneh to change ouh itinerary. Anotheh company is trying to fault us up in Qua'tz Creek Canyon, and I am in a meashuh compelled to be on the ground. We shall be delayed only a few days, I hope; at the worst only until the first snow-storm comes; and, in the meantime, Califo'nia won't run away.” Virginia clapped her hands. “Then we are really to go to 'the front' and see a right-of-way fight? Oh, won't that be perfectly intoxicating!” The Rajah glared at her as if she had said something incendiary. The picturesque aspect of the struggle had evidently not appealed to him. But he smiled grimly when he said: “Now there spoke the blood of the fighting Carterets: hope you won't change your mind, my deah.” And with that he dived into his working den, pushing the lately-returned secretary in ahead of him. Virginia linked arms with Bessie, the flaxen-haired, when the wheels began to turn. “We are off,” she said. “Let's go out on the platform and see the last of Denver.” It was while they were clinging to the hand-rail, and looking back upon the jumble of railway activities out of which they had just emerged that the Rosemary, gaining headway, overtook another moving train running smoothly on a track parallel to that upon which the private car was speeding. It was the narrow-gage mountain connection of the Utah line, and Winton and Adams were on the rear platform of the last car. So it chanced that the four of them were presently waving their adieus across the wind-blown interspace. In the midst of it, or rather at the moment when the Rosemary, gathering speed as the lighter of the two trains, forged ahead, the Rajah came out to light his cigar. He took in the little tableau of the rear platforms at a glance, and when the slower train was left behind asked a question of Virginia. “Ah--wasn't one of those two the young gentleman who called on you yestehday afternoon, my deah?” Virginia admitted it. “Could you faveh me with his name?” “He is Mr. Morton P. Adams, of Boston.” “Ah-h! and his friend--the young gentleman who laid his hand to ouh plow and put the engine on the track last night?” “He is Mr. Winton--a--an artist, I believe; at least, that is what I gathered from what Mr. Adams said of him.” Mr. Somerville Darrah laughed, a slow little laugh, deep in his chest. “Bless youh innocent soul--he a picchuh--painteh? Not in a thousand yeahs, my deah Virginia. He is a railroad man, and a right good one at that. Faveh me with the name again; Winteh, did you say?” “No; Winton--Mr. John Winton.”