Dressed entirely in black, high-throated, and with her hair arranged with severe plainness, she looked years older and more sedate than the magnificently vital creature Caruth had before seen. In her eyes lay a look of slumbering sorrow which persisted even when she smiled. Caruth, amazed, wondered what facet of her kaleidoscopic nature would manifest itself next. But if her appearance bewildered Caruth, it absolutely overwhelmed Wilkins. He dropped his hat, stammered, and almost gasped at sight of her. When she gave him her hand, he seemed afraid to touch it. But this phase passed. Miss Fitzhugh had a way with her--whether inborn or acquired it might be hard to guess--that was most effective in dealing with the opposite sex. Within ten minutes, Wilkins, his errand forgotten, was telling her a story of his experiences as a sheep-herder. “Yes, ma’am,” he wound up. “Muttons are all right when they’re served with mint sauce or when they’ve been cropped to furnish trouserings, but for steady company they’re about on the level of a Boston tea party. When you’ve watched ’em masticating daisies for a few spaces, you begin to yearn for something that don’t look like it had come out of a Noah’s ark.” Miss Fitzhugh smiled sympathetically. “So when you got your brother’s letter, with its promise of millions, you were glad enough to hurry east,” she suggested. “You wanted some of the fleshpots of Egypt.” Wilkins hesitated. “No’m,” he answered uncertainly. “I ain’t caring much about no foreign grub; chile con carne is good enough for me. But, of course, if there’s any chance of strikin’ a pocket and dredgin’ a million or so out of that ship, I’d like to do it. And, of course, I’d like to do up the fellows that did for Jim.” Miss Fitzhugh stared at him questioningly. “There is a chance of doing it,” she answered meaningly; “but it isn’t as easy as you may suppose. You may have to fight for it.” Wilkins’s right hand wandered back to his hip-pocket, reappearing with a huge revolver, while the other hand suddenly became possessed of a great knife. “I’m heeled,” he responded grimly. Miss Fitzhugh showed no surprise. Deliberately she took the revolver from the plainsman’s hand and with practised fingers twirled the cylinder and drew back the hammer, smiling at the man’s warning exclamation. “I’m used to them,” she explained.