In a few minutes Brockton reappeared, smoking a cigar. Clean-shaven and comfortable in a Tuxedo coat, he had the air of a man at peace with himself and the whole world. Laura was still sitting where he had left her. With her head resting on one hand in a meditative manner, she was so intently watching the road that she did not look up as he approached. He watched her for a moment without speaking. Then slowly removing his cigar from his mouth, he asked laconically: "Blue?" She shook her head. "No." "What's up?" "Nothing." "A little preoccupied?" "Perhaps." Still she did not turn her head, yet her heart was beating fast. This was her opportunity. He looked in the same direction she was looking. "What's up that way?" he demanded. "Which way?" "The way you are looking." "That's the road from Manitou Springs. They call it the trail out here." Brockton nodded. "I know that. I've done a lot of business west of the Missouri." The girl gave a half-yawn of indifference. "I didn't know it," she said. "Oh, yes," he went on; "south of here, in the San Juan country. Spent a couple of years there once." "That's interesting," replied Laura, with another yawn, and still not turning her head. With a chuckle of self-satisfaction, he went on: "It was then that I made some money there. It's always interesting when you make money. Still----" "Still what?" she asked absent-mindedly. He looked at her, as if surprised at her manner. Somewhat impatiently he said: "I can't make out why you have your eyes glued on that road. Some one coming?" "Yes." "One of Mrs. Williams' friends, eh?" Crossing to the other side of the terrace, he seated himself in one of the comfortable lounging chairs. "Yes," answered the girl. "Yours, too?" he asked dryly. "Yes." "Man?" "Yes, a _real_ man." There was no mistaking the significance of these last words, which she uttered with strong emphasis, as if they came right from the heart. The broker sat up with a start. At first he was too surprised to speak, but quickly he regained his composure, and gave vent to a long, low whistle, which was inaudible to his companion. Carelessly throwing his cigar over the balustrade, he rose from his seat, and stood leaning on another chair a short distance away. Laura, meantime, had not moved, except to place her left hand on a cushion and lean her head wearily against it. She still sat motionless, her gaze steadfastly fixed on the road in the pass. Brockton broke the rather awkward silence. "A _real_ man?" he echoed. "By that you mean----" "Just that," she said testily, "a real man." He gave an imperceptible shrug with his shoulders, and his tone was tinged with irony as he inquired with forced mildness: "Any different--from the _many_ you have known?" "Yes," she retorted; "from _all_ I have known." He laughed derisively. "So that's why you didn't come into Denver to meet me to-day, but left word for me to come out here?" "Yes."