Nothing had escaped Wingfield’s keen eyes; but the sigh with which he settled himself was half an expression of relief. The presence of the third figure in the scene satisfied him of the baseness of Walsh’s assumption, and added, moreover, an agreeable novelty to the call. Mrs. Craighill was a clever woman; his interest in her increased; he paid her the tribute of his sincere admiration. As to the girl’s identity, he could wait. As he discussed current social history with Mrs. Craighill he appraised Jean with a connoisseur’s eye. Wayne had been tinkering the fire, and when he rose he sat down between Mrs. Craighill and Wingfield. Walsh, his face reddened by the wind, was giving his attention to Miss Morley, and the others caught only occasionally a word of their conversation. “So your grandfather’s still in town? I supposed he would be going home before this.” “He’s waiting to finish up the Sand Creek matter. He wants to know what is going to be done about that before he goes back. It’s worried him a great deal, and he feels that he must press it now while he can. He’s an old man, and not well. I’ve tried to get him to abandon it altogether, but it’s on my account he’s doing it. He wants to get the money for my sake, but I’m afraid he will only be disappointed.” “Have you ever seen Colonel Craighill yourself? Do you know what he says to your grandfather?” “Only that he puts him off--he never really tells him anything.” “Um!” Walsh rubbed his bald pate reflectively. The trio nearer the fire were well launched in frivolous talk. Wayne seemed in excellent spirits; Mrs. Craighill had entered into the spirit of Wingfield’s banter with zest, and Wingfield was enjoying himself immensely. “I didn’t know you were acquainted with the family in this way. Does Wayne know?” continued Walsh. “It’s just an accident, my being here. It was Mrs. Craighill’s kindness--I had never seen her before; and Mr. Wayne Craighill I knew, slightly. I met him at Ironstead, at Father Paddock’s settlement there.” Walsh bent closer, as though he had not understood, and when she repeated her last sentence he drew his hand slowly down his cheek. “Um! Is Wayne going in for that kind of business? I hadn’t heard of it.” “He was out there one night when Father Paddock had an entertainment. Mr. Craighill brought me and a friend of mine home in his motor.” Walsh found a handkerchief and blew his nose vigorously. When he had settled his pudgy frame back in his chair he asked abruptly: “What do you think of him?” “Why--I don’t think!” said the girl, and her laugh reached Wayne--her light laugh of real mirth that had the ease of a swallow’s flight. “Are you afraid of him?” “No; I’m not afraid of him. We’re hardly acquainted. I’ve only seen him three or four times.” “Oh! The meeting at Paddock’s place wasn’t the first?” “No. I had seen him before--the first time at the Institute; you know I’m studying there.”