"I would rather be absurd than unjust, Margaret." "I don’t understand you." "You understood me very well. Because you see Whitby talking to a pretty woman, is that a reason to condemn him?" "Talking! He kissed her before my very eyes, in the public street." "You cannot say that, Margaret. I saw the meeting as plainly as you did." "How could you? You were inside! Why has he never mentioned her in his letters?" "Has he ever mentioned anything but business? He would scarcely mention her to George, and you know he has not written to you." "No, he had something better to do. This is an unprofitable discussion. I am utterly indifferent to Mr. Booth’s actions, past, present, and to come, as well as the reasons for them. If you intend to use that basin for something other than a dinner-call, do so. I ’m not hungry, but we might as well get it over with. We have a long drive before us." "With all my heart, my dear; unless the water is on a par with the other—er—conveniences." * * * * * "Seems like Buck Peters might be in a hurry," observed Slick Milligan, sufficiently interested to come from behind the bar and walk out onto the porch. "Which it’s th’ first time I see him use a quirt." "None o’ thea punchers think aucht o’ a horse," was Sandy’s opinion, based on a wide experience. If Margaret had chanced to overhear Slick’s remark it would have explained much. Mrs. Blake was resting, preparatory to sallying forth on the last stretch of their journey, and Margaret was about to make inquiries regarding a conveyance, when the rapid drumming of a horse’s feet drew her to the window as Buck went past. Margaret had never met Buck but she was far too good a horsewoman to fail to recognize the pony. She had noted every detail when she had first seen Rose and you may be sure no point, good or bad, of the Goat as a saddle pony, had escaped her critical judgment. Her first thought, as the Goat went past, was one of surprise that he should make so little of the weight of his rider, a full-grown man and no light-weight, either; lean and hard as Buck was, Margaret’s estimate of the number of pounds the pony carried was very near the mark; and then, in a flash, she knew him: the very animal that the French Rose had ridden. Margaret knew it to be out of the question that he had travelled to the Double Y ranch and back; they must have exchanged horses on the road. But, why?