Outside her door Pen found Betty waiting expectantly.
"Bobbie gave us a nickel apiece not to disturb you," she began glibly.
"She said you had a headache last night. And father's come home and
brought a man with him. And mother's coming soon."
Pen found herself only languidly interested in these announcements. She
listened distraitly to the prattle of the children who surrounded her
while she was served with toast and coffee.
"Father and the man are motoring around the ranch," said Francis, "but
they will be back to lunch."
This roused her to the extent of making a more elaborate toilet than
usual. She came into the library shortly before the luncheon hour, clad in
one of the gowns she had taken from the trunk Marta had brought, her hair
done with exquisite care.
"Why, Aunty Pen!" cried Betty. "You look so different. You look grown
up."
"I am, Betty," she said gravely.
"Miss Pen!" exclaimed Kingdon, coming forward. "Our hills have gotten in
their curative powers speedily. I was afraid you were of the lily family,
but I see you are a bud of the rose."
While she was replying to his banter, Kurt came into the room. She felt a
little feminine thrill of pleasure in his look of unspoken admiration.
"I left my guest, Mr. Hebler, down at the stables," continued Kingdon.
"Billy, run down and tell him it is nearly time for luncheon. I made a new
acquaintance while I was away," he explained to Pen. "Bruce Hebler. I
persuaded him to stop off on his way out to California."
Pen's eyes dilated slightly, and the color left her face, as she made some
excuse for leaving the room. Kurt followed, intercepting her in the
hallway.
"This Hebler is some one you have met before?" he asked, looking at her
keenly.
"Yes; did I show it so plainly? I don't want to see him, or let him know I
am here."
"You are afraid of him?"
"Y-e-s."
"He has some power over you--the power to take you away?"
"Yes; a power prior to yours."
"A legal one?"
"Yes."
"You can keep to your room," he said reassuringly. "That is, for the
afternoon. Westcott has invited Mr. Kingdon and this man to dinner and for
cards afterward. You can easily stay away from the breakfast room in the
morning. I think he is going to leave in a day or so. I'll think up some
excuse for your not appearing."
"Oh!" she said whimsically. "You will--lie for me?"
He flushed.
"I want Mrs. Kingdon to be your custodian--not this man."
"So do I," she said. "But I forget I am in custody up here."
"I am wondering," he said in a troubled tone, "how we can prevent the
children from speaking of you before this man? And Kingdon, too, is sure
to mention your name."
"Oh, that will do no harm. He won't know whom they mean. He doesn't know
me by my own name. I told you I had a great many convenient aliases.
Remember?"
"Yes," he replied shortly. "I remember."
She went to her room, and presently Marta came in with her luncheon, some
books and a message of sympathy from Kingdon. In spite of these
distractions, time dragged and it was with a sigh of relief that she saw
Kingdon and his guest motoring toward Westcott's.
"Poor old Hebby! Just as hawk-nosed and lynx-eyed as ever. The last place
he'd think of looking for me would be behind these curtains. It's worth
being a prisoner for an afternoon to know I have eluded him once more."
When she came down to dinner, Kurt was again visibly impressed by her
appearance. She wore another of her recently acquired gowns, a black one
of sheer filmy material. Her hair, rippling back from her brows, was
coiled low. Her face was pale and yet young and flowerlike. There was a
new touch of wistfulness about her--a charm of repose, almost of dignity.
Later, when the children had gone upstairs, she went into the dimly
lighted sitting-room and sat down at the piano, touching softly and
lightly the notes of a minor melody, an erratic little air rising and
falling in a succession of harmonies.
"Pen!"
She turned exquisite eyes to Kurt's ardent gaze.
"I like you in this dress. I didn't know dress could so alter a person."
There was the tone of unrepressed admiration in his voice.
"Hebby is right," she thought with a fleeting smile. "He said there was
something very effective about black to men--especially to men who know
nothing about clothes."
"I must ask you something," he continued, speaking in troubled tone. "This
man Hebler--does he know--"
She stopped playing.
"He knows me as you know me, as the thief, and he knows--something else
about me."
Her fingers again found their way to the keys.
Reluctantly he found himself succumbing to the witchery of her plaintive
tone and her quivering lips. Then he rallied and said relentlessly.
"Something worse?"
"Is there anything worse than stealing?" she asked artlessly. "His
acquaintance with me is not exactly of a personal nature. He admits but
one of my shortcomings--that he never knows where to find me--literally.
He'd think so more than ever if he could see me now."
"Does he love you?"
She stopped playing, rose from the piano bench and with an odd little
laugh, crossed the room to the window seat. He followed.
"Hebby love me? Well, no! There have been times when I think he positively
hated me. But I wish he hadn't come. He brings up--unpleasant memories."
"Then let's talk of something pleasant--very pleasant. About Marta, Jo's
Marta. I met them together yesterday. I had my answer to the question I
asked you."
"They are very happy," she said wistfully. "I am so glad."
"Pen, why did you make me think, that first day I met you, that it was you
Jo met and loved in Chicago?"
"Did I make you think so? You assumed I was the one and I--well, I
wouldn't have presumed to dispute the assertion of anyone in a sheriff
line. It's safer not."
"You asked me not to be hard on little Marta. Who could be? Not even the
man you seem to think me to be. I'll do all in my power to help them to
build a little home in the hills. And she does love him."
"Yes," she said softly. "She does."
He looked at her with a little ache in his throat. The moonlight was full
on her partly averted face; her profile, clear-cut, delicate, was like a
medallion.
"Pen--could you love me?"
The words seemed wrung from him in spite of an apparent determination not
to utter them.
She turned and looked straight into his eyes.
"That isn't what you should ask me, unless, you--"
"I do," he said passionately.
"You didn't--want to."
"No; frankly, I didn't want to; but I did--I do."
"Why?" she asked curiously, watching the fine little lines about his eyes
deepen.
"I've been fighting it since I met you--because--"
"Because I am a thief," she finished unconcernedly. "Do you remember that
night when we were here alone--you started to tell me you loved me, didn't
you?"
"Yes," he admitted slowly.
"Then you _remembered_ what I was, and your love wasn't big enough to let
you finish."
"That wasn't the reason I hesitated," he said quickly, "then or--other
times. The reason I didn't yield to my desire was because I knew it
wouldn't be fair to Jo. Remember, I thought until Marta came that you were
_his_."
She looked her discomfiture.
"I forgot that," she said in a low sympathetic tone.
"No;" he resumed meditatively. "You don't know what a man's love is."
"A man's love," she replied, a slight catch in her voice, "is
infinitesimal compared to a woman's."
"Let me show you, Pen. You shall love me! We'll go far away from here--"
"You're ashamed of me! Jo wouldn't ask Marta to go far away. Your's is a
little love--a love that doesn't dare venture on an uncharted sea."
"Pen," he said tensely, "I tell you that I love you! Don't you
understand?"
He put his arm about her--bent down.
There was a quiet reproach in her star-like eyes as she drew away.
"Pen, will you be my wife?"
She put her hand to her forehead with an odd little motion. Her paleness
became a pallor.
"You ask me that--you would--"
"Yes, I would. I did fight it. I didn't really know you until to-night.
You've been unreadable. Now I feel you are your real self. Not the
daredevil who defied me and mocked me. Not the little meek mouse on the
hearth. I love the woman you are to-night."
"Am I like her--the best woman in the world?" she whispered.
"Yes," he cried triumphantly. "And you will grow more and more like
her--the type of woman I want you to be. Don't you care for me--a little,
Pen?"
Again his arm was about her. She turned to meet his eyes,
deep-set--intense--burning.
"Kurt--I--"
A little wave of doubt, of contrition, stole over her.
"I don't love you," she said uncomfortably.
"Don't you want to love me, Pen?"
"No!"
She rose impulsively, and there were tears in her eyes, though there was a
half wistful smile on her lips, as she passed him swiftly and fled toward
the stairway.
He followed.
"You mustn't leave me, this way. Pen--"
For a shining second she leaned against him.
"I must. I can't tell you now. I'll think it over. You surely want me to
be honest with you!"
In the upper hall she passed the open door of Hebler's room. There were no
inner lights, but the shafts of a moonbeam shone straight upon an article
lying on a small table near the door, finding response in glimmering
gleams.
She stopped, electrified.
"Oh!"
Fascinated by the sparkle, she lingered for a moment, and then went
quickly to her room and straight to the window that looked on the moonlit
hills. She stayed there awhile, her hands clenched, thinking intensely and
rapidly--of Larry soaring like an eagle, proud and secure in his
conquering of the air--of Marta's sudden severance from the habit of a
lifetime--of Jo's faith in her--of Kurt wrestling with his conflict
between love and conventions. "Does he care, really, as much as he thinks
he does," she wondered, "or is it just the lure of--propinquity? How shall
I find out? Oh, there is too much on my mind! How careless and how like
Hebby to leave his priceless ring about. What would he think if he knew
the thief was next door to it?"
She left the window and went to the door.
* * * * *
The ring still sent forth shafts of sparkles.
A figure came stealthily out into the hall, paused near the open door. A
hand reached quickly out and closed over the ring.