THE MAN IN SADDLE
She looked as indignant as if he had accused her of a sin. "I'm not!" she said vehemently.
"I mean to me," he explained, amused in spite of himself. "It's your one amiable weakness, and it's made me late. I've got to hurry."
Something he had said seemed to have embarrassed her. She was a study of indecision; looked down, looked sidelong, opened her lips to speak, swallowed her breath.
"I will see you in three days," he said. "Back Thursday morning." He had taken the first steps of the stair, when she called his name.
The sharp and quavering sound made him turn quickly. She ran to the foot of the stair as if she was afraid he might dash away from her.
"There is something I must tell you," she began hastily. "Last night I said something that was not true. I didn't mean to—I didn't think! I thought afterward! I told you that no one but you had seen the horse, but Bert Ferrier has seen it."
This was scarcely news to Carron. He had heard this fact so long ago that he had come to take it for granted, but she was tremulous with compunction. Conscience sat in her eyes. She took hold of him as if she was afraid he might break away from her in rage. "I couldn't help it," she protested. "The trail, you see, goes past his house. I was very care-
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