Farwell listened, biting his lips and frowning. And his first words were an inquiry as to Sheila.
"Miss McCrae rode through that storm last night!" he exclaimed. "Good Lord! Is she badly hurt?"
"Only shaken up, I think."
"Thank God for that," said Farwell, with evident sincerity. He hesitated for a moment. "See here, Dunne, do you mind if I ask you an impertinent question?"
"Fire away."
"Are you going to marry her?"
"Certainly not. What put that notion in your head?"
"It got there. You were pretty thick. And if she rode there in that storm—unless she thought a lot of you——"
"I'm mighty proud of it. We're good friends—like brother and sister. No more. She has the best brand of clean-strain pluck of any girl I know."
"So she has," Farwell agreed. "She's a girl in a million. She's——" He stopped, reddening.