Dawes’s depot was merely a roofless platform; and there was no shelter from the glaring white sun that flooded it. The change from the subdued light of the coach to the shimmering, blinding glare of the sun on the wooden planks of the platform affected Taylor’s eyes, and he was forced to look downward as he alighted. And then, not looking up, he went to the baggage-car and pulled his two prisoners out. Looking up as he walked down the platform with the two men, he saw a transformed Dawes. The little, frame station building had been a red, dingy blot beside the glistening rails that paralleled the town. It was now gaily draped with bunting—red, white, and blue—which he recognized as having been used on the occasion of the town’s anniversary celebration. A big American flag topped the ridge of the station; other flags projected from various angles of the frame. Most of the town’s other buildings were replicas of the station in the matter of decorations—festoons of bunting ran here and there from building to building; broad bands of it were stretched across the fronts of other buildings; gay loops of it crossed the street, suspended to form triumphal arches; flags, wreaths of laurel, Japanese lanterns, and other paraphernalia of the decorator’s art were everywhere. Down the street near the Castle Hotel, Taylor saw transparencies, but he could not make out the words on them. He grinned, for certainly the victor of yesterday’s election was outdoing himself. He looked into the face of a man who stood near him on the platform—who answered his grin. “Our new mayor is celebrating in style, eh?” he said. “Right!” declared the man. He was about to ask the man which candidate had been victorious—though he was certain it was Neil Norton—when he saw Marion Harlan, standing a little distance from him, smiling at him. It was a broad, impersonal smile, such as one citizen of a town might exchange with another when both are confronted with the visible evidences of political victory; and Taylor responded to it with one equally impersonal. Whereat the girl’s smile faded, and her gaze, still upon Taylor, became speculative. Its quality told Taylor that he should not presume upon the smile. Taylor had no intention of presuming anything. Not even the porter’s story of the girl’s interest in him had affected him to the extent of fatuous imaginings. A woman’s curiosity, he supposed, had led her to inquire about him. He expected she rarely saw men arrayed as he was—and as he had been arrayed the day before. The girl’s gaze went from Taylor to the street in the immediate vicinity of the station, and for the first time since alighting on the platform Taylor saw a mass of people near him.