Mark and Lorry looked at one another and smiled, as age and experience smile at the artlessness of youth. It was an interchange of mutual understanding, a flash of closer intimacy, and as such lifted the young man to sudden heights.
"Where do they put the money?" said Aunt Ellen, her thought processes, under the unusual stimulus of a conversation on bandits, stirred to energy.
"That's what we'd like to know, Mrs. Tisdale. They have a cache somewhere but nobody's been able to find it. I saw the sheriff before I left and he thinks it's up in the hills among the chaparral."
"Is the messenger dead?" asked Lorry.
"Oh, no—he's getting on all right. They don't shoot to kill, just put him out of business for the time being."
"That's merciful," Aunt Ellen announced in a sleepy voice.
Chrystie, finding no more delicious shudders in the subject, twirled round on the stool and began softly picking out notes on the piano. For a space Mark and Lorry talked—it was about the ranch near the tules—rather dull as it came to Chrystie through her picking. The young man kept looking at Lorry's face, then dropping his glance to the floor, abashed before the gentle attention of her eyes, fearful his own might say too much. He thought it was just her sweetness that made her ask about his people, but everything about Mark Burrage interested her. Had he guessed it he would have been as much surprised as she had she known that he thought her beautiful.
Presently Chrystie's notes took form and became a tinkling tune. She tried it over once then whirled round on the stool.
"There—I've got it! Listen. Isn't it just like it, Lorry?"
Lorry immediately ceased talking and listened while the tune ran a halting course through several bars.