Relieved of the three-ply pressure, the steer essayed a headdown rush to accept the gift of the grass. This soon was tautened into a three-legged run, through Pape’s hoof-hold from behind. At that, the captive had the over-plus of power and might easily have controlled their course except for ramming into a street car which had slowed down that the motor man might enjoy the show. In the moment in which he stood stunned, the unhorsed puncher regained his rope and saddle, his fellow cleared a way and Pape quit his drag from the rear. The steer stampede in Manhattan’s heart was under control. The lively Pape escutcheon again was headed toward its destination. In front of the Sturgis house a groom was holding three saddlers. Pape’s wonder as to who might be riding with whom was answered. Scarcely had he and his aides stopped his hoofed exhibit when Jane Lauderdale, in a crisp gray riding suit, appeared from the vestibule. She was followed by Irene and Mills Harford. The trio stood at the top of the stone flight and gaped with sheer amazement at the unexpected delegation. Irene was first to recover her sangfroid, probably because endowed with an excess of that quality. “Only look who’s here!” was her lilt of greeting as she clattered down the steps. “The possible person back again and—— _How_ in the world did you suspect, Why-Not, that I am keen about cows? This specimen is a perfect dar-rling. I could just hug her to death.” “You could that—to your own death. Look out. Don’t come closer than the curb.” With the warning, Pape threw a snake-like wriggle into his rope which loosened its noose-hold upon the hoof of the seemingly subdued steer. Coiling it upon his saddle horn, he swung to the asphalt and saluted her, army fashion. Jane, from a stand halfway down the steps, added only the inquiry of her eyes. Harford it was who strode forward with demand. “What’s the big idea, Pape? You trying to make a spectacle of us for the benefit of the neighbors?” Pape answered them inclusively. “No pet cow knocks at your gates, but a steer rounded up and cut-out at Mrs. Sturgis’ request. Is the lady in?” “Aunt Helene? Impossible!”—Jane, with a gasp for exclamation point. “Ignore the practical joker,” urged Harford. “Let’s leave him to do his ridiculous worst and go on with our ride.” Ignore him, eh? The word interested the Westerner. That was what he had decided to do to the claims of Irene. But one attempt promised to be about as successful as the other to judge by the clutch of resentment within him and the clutch of that young woman’s fingers upon his arm. He faced another moment when heart’s ease and fate hung upon a thread of most uncertain feminine spin. CHAPTER XXI—IGNORING IRENE In her self-sufficient egoism Irene Sturgis had no mercy. She continued to ravel the thread.