“Who was he?”
But she knew already. Some swift flash of intuition told her there was but one man in Paradise Park who––
“His name’s Haig, an’ he’s––”
“Philip Haig!” she murmured.
“You know him?”
“Yes––no. That is, I’ve heard of him.”
It was on her lips,––the explanation that the men had passed the branch road leading to Haig’s ranch, that they were now riding away from it. But she hesitated. And why? She did not know then; but an hour later she would be reproaching herself bitterly for that moment’s indecision. The words were almost spoken, but something checked them; and before she could make 25 up her mind to follow her first natural impulse it was too late.
The leader of the party turned in his saddle, and called to the man at Marion’s side, who rode quickly forward and joined his companions. There was a conversation inaudible to her ears, and while she still pondered over her inexplicable hesitation the cowboys and the golden horse, followed by Marion, approached the group of squat, unpainted houses that bore without apology the name of Paradise.