The last words were as spice to a tasteless pudding. “A silk gown!” It sounded piquant.
“That’s a page of unwritten history,” said the stranger, rising. “I’m getting out here; Imperial. If you come up to Imperial, look me up. Brandon’s my name. I’ve no card these days!”
“There are several things I want to hear from you,” answered Rickard, rising also, and following the pointed beard to the platform. “I’ll be sure to look you up. Mine’s Rickard.”
“There’s my residence,” waved Brandon. “That tent over yonder?” All of Imperial was easily seen from the car platform. “No, that is a canvas house. There is a great difference,—in distinction!”
Rickard liked the nicety of speech which to the critical ear is as pleasing as wit. He watched Brandon step off the car, saw him greeted and surrounded by a knot of station watchers.
“Hello, Brandon,” Rickard could hear them hail him. “Back home, Brandon?” “Treated you well at Palm Springs?”
“Poor devil,” he thought again. “Trying Palm Springs for his cough. Wonder who the old duck is. Country newspaper, I fancy. He did say he had reported for the Sun.”
The young-old man who had spoken to him at the Junction, pushed past with some bundles. He stopped when he saw Rickard.
“I get out here. If you come to Imperial, hunt me up. I run the Star, the only newspaper in the valley. Glad to meet you.”
“Disposing of my theory about Brandon,” smiled the engineer, going back into the dusty car. He was interested enough to lean over and ask Barton who was the man called Brandon. They could see him from the windows, still surrounded, still smiling that sweet ascetic smile.