“You are not,” Elliott retorted.
She smiled rather wearily, trying to see the cow-punchers, who were out of sight.
“How on earth can I convince you of your foolishness? You seem to have no idea of the rough sort of a trip it will be, nor the gang of cutthroats we may ship for a crew. Why, you don’t even know what sort of men my partners are.”
“I suppose they’re like you and Mr. Bennett. I’m not afraid of them, nor of anything else.”
“But can’t you trust us—can’t you trust me?—to look after your interests?”
“You know it isn’t that,” cried Margaret. “It’s unkind of you to put it that way. Oh, don’t harass me!” she appealed. “I am wretched enough as it is. Don’t you see that I have to do something to keep myself from thinking?”
Against such an argument a man is always defenceless, and Elliott abandoned the attack, baffled again. But he was not the less determined that she should not leave America, and he reserved himself for a final struggle at New York.
They arrived at Omaha on Thursday night, and on the following morning they were in Chicago. They had just thirty-five minutes for a hurried breakfast and a brief walk up and down the vast, smoky platform before they left for Buffalo. It was almost the last stage of the land journey.
“We’ll make it without a hitch,” said Bennett, cheerfully. “This is better than the way I raced across the continent before on this job. Do you remember that?”
But they missed connections at Buffalo for the first time on the transcontinental journey, and were obliged to wait for several hours for the New York express. But Buffalo was left behind that night, and on the next morning they arrived at Jersey City, and crossed the ferry. New York harbour, sparkling in the mild September sunshine, seemed to congratulate them. It was Sunday morning, and there was plenty of time, for the St. Paul did not sail till Monday noon.