“We are off,” she said. “Let's go out on the platform and see the last of Denver.”
It was while they were clinging to the hand-rail, and looking back upon the jumble of railway activities out of which they had just emerged that the Rosemary, gaining headway, overtook another moving train running smoothly on a track parallel to that upon which the private car was speeding. It was the narrow-gage mountain connection of the Utah line, and Winton and Adams were on the rear platform of the last car. So it chanced that the four of them were presently waving their adieus across the wind-blown interspace. In the midst of it, or rather at the moment when the Rosemary, gathering speed as the lighter of the two trains, forged ahead, the Rajah came out to light his cigar.
He took in the little tableau of the rear platforms at a glance, and when the slower train was left behind asked a question of Virginia.
“Ah—wasn't one of those two the young gentleman who called on you yestehday afternoon, my deah?”
Virginia admitted it.
“Could you faveh me with his name?”
“He is Mr. Morton P. Adams, of Boston.”
“Ah-h! and his friend—the young gentleman who laid his hand to ouh plow and put the engine on the track last night?”
“He is Mr. Winton—a—an artist, I believe; at least, that is what I gathered from what Mr. Adams said of him.”
Mr. Somerville Darrah laughed, a slow little laugh, deep in his chest.