Baird had already guessed. There was an unnamable likeness to Ann in the man's features.
They had come to the center of the Post-Road. "Well, here we part," Garvin said more lightly. "I'll see you soon, I hope."
"Come over to dinner with me to-morrow," Baird returned. "We've got to arrange about that machine."
"I meant to thank you about that," Garvin said quickly. "I haven't my usual wits about me to-day. It's good of you, Baird." There was all the Westmore charm about the man when he smiled.
"Not a bit of it—I'll see you to-morrow," and they parted, Garvin going off at a gallop down the Post-Road.
Baird took the Back Road, glancing at Coats Penniman as he did so. He had not moved; he was looking after Garvin. "I'd hate to have a man look at me like that—especially if I was in love with his daughter," Baird said to himself.
He rode slowly, for he was thinking—of the past night, of many things that were not clear to him. He came up through the pastures, then skirted the woods, as Ann had the day before. He was thinking of her, among other things, so it did not startle him greatly when he saw her a short distance ahead, standing and looking in his direction. But before he reached her she slipped back into the woods. He hurried his horse and stopped to look about him when he had gained the woods, but she had hidden herself.
Though tired, Baird was tempted to dismount and search for her; he was constitutionally opposed to anything escaping him. He did prepare to dismount, then went on, when it occurred to him why she was there: "To meet her father, of course," was Baird's conclusion. "She took me for him, at first."