He had not been in these upper rooms of the old barn since he had played in them as a child, during the reign of a favourite coachman. He glanced about for traces of the old times. There was an old-fashioned bureau between the windows littered with Joe’s humble toilet articles. Photographs of mighty lords of the diamond were tacked to the walls. With his hand on the door, Wayne’s glance fell upon the framed likeness of Jean Morley--a face younger than that he knew and sweet with the charm of young girlhood. The eyes met his; the lips smiled wistfully. He bent his head slightly and went out. Joe crossed to the window and pressing his face to the cold pane watched Wayne running swiftly toward the house. Then he drew down the shade and snatched the picture from the wall. He gazed at it long and earnestly, with awe and wonder and fear alight in his eyes; then he restored it to its place with shaking hands and crept back to bed. CHAPTER XXII A CONFERENCE AT THE ALLEQUIPPA On their return to the Allequippa Club Walsh and Wingfield sought a quiet corner of the smoking-room and sat down to take account of their adventures, Walsh with a steaming hot whiskey before him, Wingfield with his usual glass of koumiss, which he sipped sparingly. They were silent until Walsh’s cigar had begun to burn satisfactorily. It was he that spoke first. “That little Estabrook mare has good wind; I never tried her in the snow before. There’s zip in her legs, all right.” “It was a good idea of yours, the sleigh-ride. I wish I had your knack of telling a horse from a goat. The beasts they always sell me wouldn’t make good glue.” “Um.” A proper interval was necessary to set the mare apart from other subjects, and they played with their glasses. “She’s a little brittle--‘Fragile; handle with care,’” remarked Walsh presently. Wingfield blinked behind his glasses. “That mare--oh, no, I see!” “That woman up there. She’s like glass--bright, tolerably transparent, and easily smashed.” “I don’t know about her being so transparent. It seems to me she’s pretty clever--a little subtle, maybe. She doesn’t seem to have been anybody in particular, yet she landed the Colonel with an artificial fly.” Walsh shook his head. “You’re in wrong. _She_ didn’t land the Colonel. She couldn’t have done it. She wouldn’t have had the nerve. An older hand played the line and made the cast; but she was the pretty fly, all right.” “Well, of course I didn’t know,” replied Wingfield humbly, wondering again at the ramifications of Walsh’s knowledge. “Should you say she had the come-hither in her eye?” Wingfield had spoken lightly, but he was rebuked by the unmistakable displeasure in Walsh’s face. The old fellow shrugged his shoulders but when he spoke there was kindness in his tone.