"Oh, yes. The colonel hasn't made it a personal fight on the working force since Braithwaite's time."
"Perhaps you have met Miss—er—the daughter who comes and goes?"
"Sure I have! If you'll promise not to discipline me for hobnobbing with the enemy, I'll confess that I've even played duets with her. She discovered my weakness for music when she was home last summer."
"Do you happen to know where she is now?"
"On her way to Europe, I believe. At least, that is what Miss Cauffrey—she's the fragile-china aunt—was telling me."
"I think not," said Ballard, after a pause. "I think she changed her mind and decided to spend the summer at home. When we stopped at Ackerman's to take water this evening, I saw three loaded buckboards driving in this direction."
"That doesn't prove anything," asserted Bromley. "The old colonel has a house-party every little while. He's no anchorite, if he does live in the desert."
Ballard was musing again. "Adam Craigmiles," he said, thoughtfully. "I wonder what there is in that name to set some sort of bee buzzing in my head. If I believed in transmigration, I should say that I had known that name, and known it well, in some other existence."
"Oh, I don't know," said Bromley. "It's not such an unusual name."
"No; if it were, I might trace it. How long did you say the colonel had lived in Arcadia?"