So far, the colonel had kept his back to them; now he twisted around and looked at Maybelle, then past her at the others. His glance lingered longest on his son, and Fayte swung down with the air of one who had got an order, came around to help Hilda off, but she shook her head and sat in her saddle, waiting for what the colonel would do or say. Maybelle laughed hardily.
“Make you acquainted with Mr. Masters, Colonel Marchbanks,” she went on. “Ever meet the gentleman before? Hilda has. She says she’s known him ever since she was a baby.”
“She does?”
There fell a curious silence after the colonel’s two words, only the movements of the ponies, Jinnie’s tired whimpering as she pulled at her mother’s hand, the creaking of saddle leather making itself heard. At last Marchbanks, looking Pearse up and down, observed dryly:
“Funny Pearsall never mentioned you to me.”
“I don’t think it’s funny.”
Pearse’s reply seemed to cover a good deal. But what it covered was not for explanation here.
“You don’t? Then you’re not a friend of his—only of Hilda’s? That it?”
“That’s about it,” agreed Pearse coolly.
Hilda clutched her bridle rein in fingers that shook, as she looked at the two men facing each other.