"True enough, Mrs. Dubois, but naturally a poor country doctor like me would hesitate before bolting in upon the privacy of a rich widow." "If you use 'poor' in the sense of incompetent I am afraid I must agree with you," was the unexpected answer. "Ah, beginning to feel your oats, my dear." She slouched into the nearest chair and flung her hat carelessly upon the floor. "You notice it, my dear?" mimicked Essie Tisdale. "When a range cayuse has a few square meals he gets onery." "While they merely give a well-bred horse spirit." Dr. Harpe looked at her searchingly. There was a change in Essie Tisdale. She had a new confidence of manner, a cool poise that was older than her years, while that intangible something which she could never crush looked at her more defiantly than ever from the girl's sparkling eyes. She had a feeling that Essie Tisdale welcomed her coming. Certainly her assurance and animation was strangely at variance with her precarious position. What had happened? Dr. Harpe intended to learn before she left the room. "At any rate you've paid high for your oats, Ess," she said finally. The girl agreed coolly-- "Very." "And you're not done paying," she added significantly. "That remains to be seen." Dr. Harpe's eyes narrowed in thought. "Ess," in a patronizing drawl, "why don't you pull your freight? I'll advance you the money myself." "Run away? Why?" "You're going to be arrested--that's a straight tip. You may get off, but think what you'll have to go through first. Skip till things simmer down. They'll not go after you." The girl flashed a smile of real merriment at her, which almost cost Dr. Harpe her self-control. The young and now glowing beauty of the girl before her, the unconscious air of superiority and confidence which had its wellspring in some mysterious source was maddening to her. The interview was taxing her self-control to the limit and she felt that in some inexplicable way the tables were turning. "You--won't go, then?" Her voice held a menace. "Why should I, since I am innocent? Take a vacation yourself, Dr. Harpe, with the money you so generously offer me. You need it." She followed the girl's dancing eyes to the mirror opposite which was tilted so that it reflected the whole of her uncouth pose. Slid far down in the chair with her heels resting on the floor and wrinkling hose exposed above her boottops, a knot of dull, red hair slipped to one side with shorter ends hanging in dishevelment about her face, she looked--the thought was her own--like a drab of the streets in the magistrate's court in the morning. She was startled, shocked by her own appearance. Was she, Emma Harpe, as old, as haggard, as evil-looking as that!