Pen found the ranch-house quite deserted the next morning. Kurt had gone
to Wolf Creek to purchase cattle and would not return until night. A
little scrawled note from Francis apprised her of the fact that Mrs.
Merlin was taking himself, Billy and Betty to spend the day at her own
home.
"A whole day alone for the first time in ages!" she thought exultingly.
"It is surely Pen Lamont's day. What shall I do to celebrate? Stop the
clock and play with the matches? I must do something stupendous. I know. I
will go into town and shop. I will go in style, too."
She took Kingdon's racing car out of the garage, and was soon speeding
down the hills with the little thrill of ecstasy that comes from leaving a
beaten track.
In town she left the car in front of the hotel and went down the Main
street, looking in dismay at the windows loaded with assorted and
heterogeneous lots of feminine apparel. At last she came to a little shop
with but three garments on display, all of them quite smart in style.
"You must be a 'lost, strayed or stolen,'" she apostrophized in delight.
She went within and purchased two gowns with all the many and necessary
accessories thereto.
"Lucky, Kind Kurt and Bender didn't search me that day," she thought. "I
never saw a sheriff or a near-sheriff so slack. If they'd been in my
business, they'd have known that you can't always tell what's in the
pocket of a ragged frock."
She visited in turn a shoe store, a soda water fountain and a beauty shop.
Then it was the town time for dining, and she returned to the hotel.
"I shouldn't have exhausted the resources of the town so soon," she
thought ruefully, as she stood in the office after registering. "I don't
know what I will do this afternoon unless I sit in a red plush chair in
the Ladies' Parlor and gaze out through the meshes of a coarse lace
curtain at the passers-by. I might call on Bender and see if he'd remember
me. Bet his wife would. Maybe something interesting will come along,
though."
Something did. It came in the shape of a lean, brown-faced young man.
"Larry, Larry!" she cried. "It's a homecoming to see you. I hadn't any
idea what part of the world you were in. What are you doing here?"
"The Thief!" he exclaimed, his dark eyes beaming with pleasure.
"Not so loud. I am Pen Lamont, at present. Incog, you see, under my real
name, the least known of any. So don't squeal on me."
"I never gave anyone away yet, Pen, dear. What are you doing in this neck
o' the woods?"
"I am in hiding in the hills--at a ranch--quite domesticated. My first
glimpse of a home. Like it better than I supposed I could."
"You'd better watch out. Hebler is up in these parts somewhere, I hear.
He'll get you yet, Pen!"
"Hebler! You make my heart stop beating. I hit this trail more to escape
him than anything else. What is he here for?"
"For you, I fancy. I ran across Wilks the other day and he said he heard
Hebler say, 'He'd get that thief if he never did another thing.' So lay
low. Are you here alone in town to-day?"
"Alone and untethered for the first time in ages. Same with you?"
"You're right as to the alone part; but I am not altogether free. I have
to give an exhibition fool flight this afternoon in my little old flier.
We'll have dinner together, and the rest of the day. Will you?"
"Will I? Try me."
"What's the idea, Pen?" he asked as they went into the long dining-room
and chose a remote table.
"I don't know, Larry. I had one, but I seem to have lost it in trying to
pick up others. I'm floundering."
"You've always been in wrong, Pen. Wish you'd find your level. You made me
ashamed of my old life. I am string-straight now, thanky."
"I am glad, Larry. You never were crooked, you know--just a bit reckless.
Tell me about yourself."
"You gave me a good steer when you suggested this sky stuff. I don't
believe a flying man could be very bad--up there in the clouds in a world
all his own. Whenever I felt as if I must break over the traces and go off
for a time, I'd just get into my little old flier and hit the high spots
and that would give me more thrills than all the thirst parlors ever
brought. I am going soon to fly for France. In fact, I'm 'on my way'
now."
"Larry! I _am_ proud of you! But it tugs at my heartstrings to have you
go, and in an aeroplane!"
"Did you ever go up, Pen?"
"No; it's about the only exciting thing I haven't done, and it's the only
stunt I ever lacked the nerve to tackle."
"Terrors of the unknown? I'm booked for some of that fancy flying this
afternoon, and you can watch me from the field."
"I knew this was to be a real day, but I never hoped for such a big
handful of luck as seeing you again and in such a good act."
"Always invest heavily in hope, Pen. It is free to all, and you come out
ahead because you get your dividends in anticipating anyway, and you know
anticipation--"
"Hold on, Larry, don't be a bromide!"
"Everyone is a bromide now. Sulphides are all in the asylums. I am hoping
for a chance to win the _medal militaire_--I mean for the chance to do
something worth getting one."
Pen's pleasure in her surreptitious expedition, the delight in shopping
and the excitement of meeting some one from her former life had brought a
most vivid beauty to her delicate face, and Larry looked at her with an
approval that brought forth a sudden wonder.
"Say, Pen!" he exclaimed excitedly, "you haven't got a man up there at
your ranch, have you?"
"Certainly; two of them," she replied assuredly.
"That's all right. So long as there are two, it's nothing serious. Safety
in numbers, remember."
After dinner they motored out to the field where the exhibition was to be
given. A coatless, tanned, weather-beaten crowd had already gathered.
Pen stood apart from the spectators, watching Larry whirl, turn turtle,
and perform all the aviation agonies so fascinating to the untutored. When
he shut off the engine and swung down, skimming the ground for a way and
stopping gently, she was in waiting nearby.
"I loathe this kind of exhibition work!" he declared. "It's silly stuff,
but it's what the public wants. Sure you don't want to try a little
straight flight?" he tempted.
"N--o, Larry. Vice versa for mine, as the Irishman said."
"All right. Here, Meder!" he said to the mechanic, who had come up. "Take
care of the flier. I'll see you later at the hotel."
"It was wonderful, Larry," said Pen as they were motoring to town. "I seem
to see you from such a new angle now. I have always thought of you as a
lovable, happy-go-lucky boy, but when I saw you take the air, I knew you
had come to be something far different. You have the hawk-sense of
balance, the sixth sense--the sense woman was supposed to have a monopoly
of till the day of aeroplanes arrived. You had nerve to go up there and
yet you were not nervous."
"A fellow has to be without nerve and yet nervy," explained Larry. "If he
loses his sense of equilibrium up there, it's all off; yet he has to be
always ready to take a chance and to find one."
"And, Larry--when you fly to the colors--"
"To the tricolors," he interrupted.
"It will bring out the biggest and bravest and best there is in you,
Larry. I am so glad! Don't go out of my life again. Let me hear from you
when you get over."
"I was sore, Pen, when you handed me such a lecture, though it was coming
to me all right. But it stuck, and the time came when I was grateful. When
I found I could make good, I couldn't find you. I wrote every one of the
crowd or went to see them, but you had mysteriously disappeared. Hebby
said you must have been run in."
"Was; but luck was with me again. I will give you an address that will
always reach me."
"I shall never go up, Pen, without thinking of you and to-day. But you
have told me very little of yourself. Are you still--"
"The thief? Not at present. I am enjoying an interlude; but there are
times when virtue palls, but I mean to keep out of Hebler's clutches.
Larry, I believe I will let you out here--on the edge of the town--the
main street. I have a long ride before me. It's lonesome to say
good-bye."
"I expect to be in two or three days yet--waiting for some mail."
"I wish I might see you again, Larry, but I don't know how I can manage
it. If anyone knew I were in town to-day, it might lead to--developments.
Send me your address at the port you are to sail from, and I'll have
things there for you."
"Good-bye, Pen. You're the best little scout I ever knew."
He kissed her and got out of the car. There were tears in her eyes as she
motored on up through the hills land. The air grew cold and brisk; she
felt the sense of silence and strength. She recalled her first ride up
these hills in the early morning, and that turned her thoughts to Kurt.
She wondered if he were of the stuff that bird men are made of. How much
more sphinx-like he was, and how different from the keen, alert,
business-like flier Larry had shown himself to be! They were types as
remote as the eagle and the lark. Larry, of course, was the lark. She had
a feeling of loneliness in her knowledge of his going so far away. He knew
more about her than any one else. She never had to play a part with him.
Soon, all too soon, she found herself at the ranch. Dinner was over and
the children had gone upstairs with Mrs. Merlin.
Kurt returned a few moments later and came into the library where she sat
alone by the open fire, pensive and distrait, still thinking of Larry and
of his going into service.
He looked at her oddly. This was not the pert, saucy, little girl he had
taken from Bender, nor the little playmate of the children, nor yet the
quiet, domestic woman who had served him that night in the kitchen.
There was an indefinable charm about her that defied definition or
analysis--a rapt, exquisite look that lifted her up--up to his primitive
ideal.
"Pen!"
He started toward her, seemed to remember, hesitated and then asked
lamely:
"What have you been doing all day?"
Her former little air of raillery crept back momentarily at his change of
tone.
"A narrow escape," she thought, as she said aloud, reckless of
consequences: "I motored into town by myself; bought some new clothes; had
dinner with an old friend; saw an aeroplane go up and--"
He smiled in a bored way and asked her some irrelevant question.
"The easiest way to deceive, as Hebby always said, is to tell the truth,"
she thought.
"Pen!" He spoke with a return of his first manner. "I--"
"I am very tired," she quickly interrupted, "I think I will say
good-night, now."
"Don't go yet," he urged, "I--"
"I want to be alone," she replied wearily.
"There is something I want to say to you. Jo Gary comes to-morrow!"
"Yes," she answered indifferently. "Mr. Westcott found another manager,
did he?"
"You knew Jo was at Westcott's?" he gasped.
"Certainly. I've seen Jo a number of times."
"When, where?" he demanded in displeased tone.
"Let me think. Why, he came back from Westcott's the day after my arrival.
Their manager postponed departure. So Jo was here for the dance, and on
field day--and--I think he went back to Westcott's the day you came back.
Wasn't it all right to see him?" she asked guilelessly. "Mrs. Kingdon
didn't object."
"What other times did you see him?"
"I heard him whistle one night, and I slid down the big tree near my
window. Then he came one morning to bring me flowers. I am glad he is
coming for keeps. He livens things up, Jo does."
"Why did neither you nor he speak of your having met?"
"I begged him not to, because I felt that you wouldn't approve."
An intense silence followed.
"Do you think," he asked bitterly, "that you are fair to Jo--"
"To Jo?" she asked in surprise. "I don't understand."
"You do understand. Jo told me what he asked you in Chicago and how you
left him--to reform--to be worthy of his love."
"I haven't deceived Jo," she replied slowly. "I told him where you found
me and why. He doesn't care. He understands. Jo loves--"
The pause that followed was so prolonged that she stole another
side-glance. She had a sudden, swift insight into the power and vigor of
the man--the inner man.
"That the girl he loves," she continued softly, "is a thief, makes no
difference to Jo."
"Remember, Jo is only a boy--younger than you in all but years."
"Only a boy, it is true, but with the faith and love of a man."
He started from his chair and came up close to her.
"Answer me," he said, his eyes narrowing to slits. "Do you love Jo Gary?"
A sort of paralysis seemed to grip her, and she felt helpless to move her
eyes from his. Her lips were slightly parted and he could feel the pull of
her nerves. For a moment she looked like a startled deer, quivering at the
approach of man, with no place to run.
Then she recovered.
"Ask Jo," she said defiantly, and sped from the room.
"Jo didn't tell me how much he had confided in Kurt," she thought. "What a
wee world it is! I can't see how, with all the shuffling billions of
people, the same two, once parted, should ever meet. I believe I was wrong
about Kurt. For a moment I was almost afraid of him."
Kurt gazed into the fire, his gray eyes alert and a soft smile on his
lips. He had not been misled. He had clearly read an answer in the young
eyes looking into his own.
"She doesn't love Jo," he thought, and the knowledge was quickly darkened
by the remembrance of what it would mean to the boy-lover.