For a long time--for he was thinking now, was Clayton Craig, and did not answer--there was silence. Likewise the girl, her confession voiced, said no more; but her colour came and went expectantly, tantalisingly, and the eyes that still looked into the distance were unconscious of what they saw. From his place the man watched the transparent pantomime, read its meaning, stored the picture in his memory; but he did not speak. A minute had already passed; but still he did not speak. He was thinking of the night before, was the man, of that first look he had received--and of what had followed. His eyes were upon the girl, but it was of this he was thinking. Another minute passed. A big shaggy-haired collie, guardian of the dooryard, paused in his aimless wandering about the place to thrust a friendly muzzle into the stranger's hand; but even then he did not respond. For almost the first time in his irresolute life a definite purpose was taking form in the mind of Clayton Craig, and little things passed him by. A third minute passed. The colour had ceased playing on the face he watched now. The silence had performed its mission. It was the moment for which he was waiting, and he was prepared. Then it was the angel of the great book opened the volume and made an entry; for then it was the watcher spoke. "I met him last, night, you say?" It was the hesitating voice of one whose memory is treacherous, "I have been trying to recall--Certainly you must be mistaken. I saw no one last night except Uncle Landor and an Indian cow-puncher with a comic opera name." He met the brown eyes that were of a sudden turned upon him, frankly, innocently. "You must be mistaken," he repeated. Searchingly, at first suspiciously, then hesitatingly, with a return of the colour that came as easily as a prairie wind stirs the down of a milk-weed plant, Elizabeth Landor returned his look. It was an instinct that at last caused her eyes to drop. "No, I was not mistaken," she voiced. "How Landor is an Indian. It is he I meant." For a carefully timed pause, the space in which one recovers from hearing the unbelievable, Craig was silent; then swiftly, contritely he roused. "I beg a thousand pardons," he apologised. "I meant no disrespect. I never dreamed--Forgive me." He had drawn very near. "I wouldn't hurt you for the world. I--Please forgive me." He was silent. "There's nothing to forgive." The girl's colour was normal again and she met his eyes frankly, gravely. "But there is," protested the man humbly. "Because he happened to be minus a collar and had a red skin--I was an ass; an egregious, blundering ass." "Don't talk that way," hurriedly. "You merely did not know him, was all. If you had been acquainted all your life as I have--" Against her will she was lapsing into a defence, and she halted abruptly. "You were not at fault." Again for a carefully timed pause the man was silent. Then abruptly, obviously, he changed the subject.