“Oh, I’m not much afraid of that,” he answered lightly. They had resumed their walk, which lay back through the forest by a different way, chatting freely about anything and everything, as if they had known each other for years, at least so Denham looked upon it. He had had a most delightful walk, he told her, and she said she was glad. What he did not tell her was that he had found in her personality something so alluring, in her propinquity something so magnetic that it seemed ages ago when he had never known her. And now he was due to spend an indefinite time in a wild and unfrequented place, with herself and her father as sole companions. Assuredly the situation was charged with potentialities, but from such Alaric Denham, recognising, did not shrink.
Two figures were walking a little way in front of them as they drew near the hotel garden gate.
“Why, who can that be with father?” said Verna. Then, as they got a little nearer, “Why, if it isn’t Harry Stride!”
“Who’s he?”
“A prospector. He’s a nice boy. A little while ago he got into a difference of opinion with some of our people and learnt which was softest—his head or a knobkerrie. We mended him up, but it took a little while.”
“Poor chap. Is he all right now?”
“Oh yes.” And the other two, hearing them, turned and waited.
During the greetings which followed a mere glance was sufficient to make Denham acquainted with two things—one, that the newcomer was over head and ears in love with Verna Halse, and the other that Verna was not in the least in love with him. She greeted him with frank, open-hearted friendliness, while his face, in that brief moment, spoke volumes.
Then the two men were introduced, and Denham became alive to the fact that the other regarded him with no friendly eyes.