sat opposite her, drumming his fingers without noise on the table, with a smile now and then which might be plain amusement, but which was tinged, she thought, with insolence.
Yet he seemed oddly undisturbed. She had expected some jealous outburst, some keen questioning of the motives which had made her beg them not to pursue this man. But Charles Merchant was only interested in what the fellow had said and done when he talked with her. "He was just like a man out of a book," said the girl in conclusion, "and I'll wager that he's been raised on romances. He had the face for it, you know—and the wild look!"
"A blacksmith—in Martindale—raised on romances?" Charles had said as he fingered his throat, which was patched with black and blue.
"A blacksmith—in Martindale," she had repeated slowly. And it brought a new view of the affair home to her. It had all seemed quite clear before. This romantic fellow caught a glimpse of her, thought he was in love with a face, got into a scrape, and like a wild boy risked his life to see that face again while he was being pursued. Besides, now that they knew from Bill Dozier that the victim in Martindale had been only injured, and not actually killed, the whole matter became rather a farce. It would be an amusing tale. But now, as Charles Merchant repeated the words, "blacksmith"—"Martindale," the new idea shocked her, the new idea of Andrew Lanning, for Charles had told her the name.
The new thought stayed with her when she went back to her room after breakfast, ostensibly to read, but really to think; for Anne Withero was still young enough to love to turn adventures over her tongue like a wine-taster. Remembering Andrew Lanning, she got past the
