The safe had been unlocked by means of a false key. There were no visible signs of robbery, and Billy Little determined to tell no one of his loss. The first question that confronted him in the morning was, what should be done about the loss of Dic's gold? That proposition he quickly settled. He went across the road to the inn, got his breakfast, returned to his room, donned his broadcloth coat, made thirty years before in London, took from his strong-box notes to the amount of twenty-six hundred dollars, and left for Indianapolis by the noon stage. At Indianapolis he sold the notes and brought back Dic's gold. This he kept in his iron box during the day and under his pillow at night.
The household effects of the Bays family were placed in two wagons to be taken to Indianapolis. Dic had offered to drive one team, and Tom was to drive the other. Mr. Bays had preceded the family by a day or two; but before leaving he and Dic had gone to Billy Little's store for the money. Dic, of course, knew nothing of the robbery. Billy had privately advised his young friend to lend the money payable on demand.
"You should buy a farm when a good opportunity offers," said he. "Land hereabouts will increase in value a hundred per cent in ten years. You should not tie up your money for a long time."
Billy made the same representation to Bays, and that gentleman, eager to get the money on any terms, agreed with him. Little's real, though unspoken, reason was this: he felt that if Dic held a debt against Bays, collectible upon demand, it would be a protection against Mrs. Margarita's too keen sense of justice, and might prove an effective help in winning Rita from the icy dragoness. Therefore, the note was drawn payable on demand. When Mrs. Bays learned that fact, she named over to her spouse succinctly the various species of fool of which he was the composite representative. The satisfaction she felt in unbosoming herself was her only reward, for the note remained collectible on demand.
The weather was very cold, and the snow-covered road would be rough. So it had been determined that Rita and her mother should travel to Indianapolis by the stage coach. But when the wagons were ready to start, at sun-up, Mrs. Bays being in bed, Rita basely deserted that virtuous woman and climbed over the front wheel to the seat beside Dic. She left a note for her mother, saying that she would go with the wagon to save the seven shilling stage fare. She knew she was making a heavy purchase of "moments," and was sure she would be called upon for instant payment that night when she should meet her mother. She was willing to pay the price, whatever it might be, for the chariot of Phœbus would have been a poor, tame conveyance compared with the golden car whereon she rode.
The sun was barely above the horizon, and the crisp, cold air was filled with glittering frost dust when the wagons crossed Blue on the ice at the ford below Bays's barn. The horses' breath came from their nostrils like steam from kettle-spouts, and the tires, screaming on the frozen snow, seemed to laugh for joy. It would have been a sad moment for Rita had she not been with Dic; but with him by her side she did not so much as turn her head for one backward look upon the home she was leaving.
Dic wore a coat made from mink pelts which he had taken in the hunt, and he so wrapped and enveloped Rita in a pair of soft bearskin robes that the cold could not come near her. He covered her head, mouth, nose, and cheeks with a great fur cap of his own; but he left her eyes exposed, saying, "I must be able to see them, you know." As he fastened the curtains of the cap under her chin, he received a flashing answer from the eyes that would have warmed him had he been clothed in gossamer and the mercury freezing in the bulb.
If I were to tell you all the plans that were formulated upon that wagon while it jolted and bumped over the frozen ruts of the Michigan road; if I were to write down here all the words of hope and confidence in the fickle future; if I were to tell you of the glances, touches, and words of love that were given and spoken between sun-up and sun-down upon this chariot of the gods—I will say of the blind god—I should never finish writing, nor would you ever finish reading.
It was:—