It was therefore no surprise to the Englishman when that very evening, as he sat on the front veranda, his heels on the railing, watching the passage of equipages swift and slow, he saw a tall young man, at whom passers-by stared more than was polite, coming leisurely up the sidewalk, inspecting the numbers on the houses. As he came closer, Mr. Baker took in the details of the long free stride, of the broad chest, the square uplifted chin, with something akin to admiration. Vitality and power were in every motion of the supple body; health--a life free as the air and sunshine--was written in the brown of the hands, the tan of the face. Even his clothes, though not the conventional costume of city streets, seemed a part of their wearer, and had a freedom all their own. The broad-brimmed felt hat was obviously for comfort and protection, not for show. The light-brown flannel shirt was the color of the sinewy throat. The trousers, of darker wool, rolled up at the bottom, exposed the high-heeled riding-boots. About the whole man--for he was very near now--there was that immaculate cleanliness which the world prizes more than godliness. Scotty dropped his feet from the railing and advanced to the steps. "Hello, Ben Blair!" he said. The visitor paused and smiled. "How do you do, Mr. Baker?" he answered. "I thought I'd find you along here somewhere." He swung up the short walk, and, mounting the steps, grasped the Englishman's extended hand. For a moment the two said nothing. Then Scotty motioned to a chair. "Sit down, won't you?" he invited. Ben stood as he was. The smile left his face. "Would you really--like me to?" he asked directly. "I really would, or I wouldn't have asked you," Scotty returned, with equal directness. Ben took the proffered chair, and crossed his legs comfortably. The two sat for a moment in silent companionship. "Tell me about Rankin," suggested Scotty at last. Ben did so. It did not take long, for he scarcely mentioned himself, and quite omitted that last incident of which Grannis had been witness. "And--the man who shot him?" Scotty found it a bit difficult to put the query into words. "They swung him a few days later. Things move rather fast out there when they move at all." "Were 'they' the cowboys?" "No, the sheriff and the rest. It was all regular--scarcely any spectators, even, I heard." "And now about yourself. Shall you be in the city long?" "I hardly know. I came partly on business--but that won't take me long." He looked at his host significantly. "I also had another purpose in coming." Scotty moved uncomfortably in his seat. "Ben," he said at last, "I'd like to ask you to stay with us if I could, but--" he paused, looking cautiously in at the open door--"but Mollie, you know--It would mean the dickens' own time with her." Ben showed neither surprise nor resentment. "Thank you," he replied. "I understand. I couldn't have accepted had you invited me. Let's not consider it."