This time he smiled. Mrs. de la Vere wished to be a friend to Helen. Whatsoever her motive, the wish was excellent. "You are severe," she pouted. "Of course I ought not to mimic you----" "Pray do. I had no idea I spoke so nicely." "Thank you. But I am serious. I have espoused Miss Wynton's cause, and there will be nothing but unhappiness for her while that other girl remains here." "I hope you are mistaken," he said slowly, meeting her quizzing glance without flinching. "That is precisely where a woman's point of view differs from a man's," she countered. "In our lives we are swayed by things that men despise. We are conscious of sidelong looks and whisperings. We dread the finger of scorn. When you have a wife, Mr. Spencer, you will begin to realize the limitations of the feminine horizon." "Are you asking me to take this demonstrative young lady in hand?" "I believe you would succeed." Spencer smiled again. He had not credited Mrs. de la Vere with such fine perceptiveness. If her words meant anything, they implied an alliance, offensive and defensive, for Helen's benefit and his own. "Guess we'll leave it right there till I've had a few words with Miss Wynton," he said, dropping suddenly into colloquial phrase. "A heart to heart talk, in fact." She laughed pleasantly, and opened her cigarette case. "Tell you what, Mrs. de la Vere," he said, "if ever you come to Colorado I shall hail you as a real cousin!" Then a silence fell between them. Bower was walking out of the hotel. He passed close in front of the glass partition, and might have seen them if his eyes were not as preoccupied as his mind. But he was looking at Stampa, and frowning in deep thought. The guide heard his slow, heavy tread, and turned. The two met. They exchanged no word, but went away together, the lame peasant hobbling along by the side of the tall, well dressed plutocrat. "How odd!" said Mrs. de la Vere. "How exceedingly odd!" CHAPTER XIII THE COMPACT "Now, what have you to say? We are safe from meddlers here." Bower spoke curtly. Stampa and he were halfway across the narrow strip of undulating meadow land which shut off the hotel from the village. They had followed the footpath, a busy thoroughfare bombarded with golf balls on fine mornings, but likely to be unfrequented till the snow melted. Receiving no answer, Bower glanced sharply at his companion; but the old guide might be unaware of his presence, so steadily did he trudge onward, with downcast, introspective eyes. Resolved to make an end of a silence that was irksome, Bower halted. Then, for the first time, Stampa opened his lips. "Not here," he said. "Why not? We are alone." "You must come with me, Herr Baron." "That is not my title." "It used to be. It will serve as well as any other." "I refuse to stir a yard farther." "Then," said Stampa, "I will kill you where you stand!"