"Business, what business?" protested Colonel Blount. "Say, have you asked that girl yet?" He was fumbling at the gate latch as he spoke, or he might have seen Eddring's face suddenly flush red.
"Whom do you mean?" he managed to stammer.
Blount whirled and looked him full in the eye. "You know mighty well who I mean."
Eddring turned away. "I told you, Cal,"—he began.
"Oh, you told me! Well I could have told you a long time ago that Miss Lady had this whole thing straightened out in her head. Do you reckon she's a fool? I don't reckon she thinks you're a thief any more. I reckon like enough she thinks you're just a supreme damned fool. I know I do."
"Turn 'em loose, Cal!" cried Eddring, suddenly. "Open the gates! Let 'em out! I want to hear 'em holler!" The pack poured out, motley, vociferous, eager for the chase, filling the air with their wild music, with a riot of primeval, savage life. "Get me a horse saddled, Cal, quick," cried Eddring. "I want to feel leather under me again. I want to feel the air in my ears. I've got to ride, to move! Man, I'm going to live!"
"Now," said Blount, rubbing his chin, "you're beginning to talk. The man that don't like a good b'ah chase once in a while is no earthly use to me."
But Eddring did not ride to the far forest that day. A good horseman, and now well mounted, he made a handsome figure as he galloped off across the field. As he rode, his eye searched here and there, till it caught sight of the flash of a scarlet jacket beyond a distant screen of high green brier. He put his horse over the rail fence and pulled up at her side.
"You ride well," said Miss Lady, critically. "I didn't know that. Why didn't you tell me?"
"There have been a good many things about me that you didn't know," said Eddring, "and there's a heap of things I haven't told you."