"Thinking of you," repeated Dakota. "Of the chance you took in coming out here alone--in coming into my shack. We're twenty miles from town here--twenty miles from the Double R--the nearest ranch. It isn't likely that a soul will pass here for a month. Suppose----" "We won't 'suppose,' if you please," said Sheila. Her face had grown slowly pale, but there was a confident smile on her lips as she looked at him. "No?" he said, watching her steadily. "Why? Isn't it quite possible that you could have fallen in with a sort of man----" "As it happens, I did not," interrupted Sheila. "How do you know?" Sheila's gaze met his unwaveringly. "Because you are the man," she said slowly. She thought she saw a glint of pleasure in his eyes, but was not quite certain, for his expression changed instantly. "Fate, or Providence--or whatever you are pleased to call the power that shuffles us flesh and blood mannikins around--has a way of putting us all in the right places. I expect that's one of the reasons why you didn't fall in with the sort of man I was going to tell you about," said Dakota. "I don't see what Fate has to do--" began Sheila, wondering at his serious tone. "Odd, isn't it?" he drawled. "What is odd?" "That you don't see. But lots of people don't see. They're chucked and shoved around like men on a chess board, and though they're always interested they don't usually know what it's all about. Just as well too--usually." "I don't see----" He smiled mysteriously. "Did I say that I expected you to see?" he said. "There isn't anything personal in this, aside from the fact that I was trying to show you that some one was foolish in sending you out here alone. Some day you'll look back on your visit here and then you'll understand." He got up and walked to the door, opening it and standing there looking out into the darkness. Sheila watched him, puzzled by his mysterious manner, though not in the least afraid of him. Several times while he stood at the door he turned and looked at her and presently, when a gust of wind rushed in and Sheila shivered, he abruptly closed the door, barred it, and strode to the fireplace, throwing a fresh log into it. For a time he stood silently in front of the fire, his figure casting a long, gaunt shadow at Sheila's feet, his gaze on her, grim, somber lines in his face. Presently he cleared his throat. "How old are you?" he said shortly. "Twenty-two." "And you've lived East all your life. Lived well, too, I suppose--plenty of money, luxuries, happiness?" He caught her nod and continued, his lips curling a little. "Your father too, I reckon--has he been happy?" "I think so." "That's odd." He had spoken more to himself than to Sheila and he looked at her with narrowed eyes when she answered. "What is odd? That my father should be happy--that I should?"