Her eyes met his, and she was laughing.
"That," she said unexpectedly, "is what Father calls me!"
"Oh!" said Murray, remembering suddenly. How in the name of everything could a Chinaman pick upon such a name as that—a name of poetry, of romance, almost of oblivion! A sudden distaste for that name seized upon Murray.
The girl read the sardonic thoughts in his face, and turned away. A coldness was upon her when she spoke; as it were, a veil was drawn between them.
"If you'll bring the suitcase inside, please, we'll get Father fixed up comfortably."
Murray obeyed dumbly.
Half an hour later, he started for Two Palms. He should have covered the few intervening miles in no time, but one of his forward tires blew out with a roar and left him sitting thoughtfully in the mountain places.
By the time complete darkness fell, he had found a spare tube and was patching up the blown tire with fumbling fingers. Presently he got the stubborn rubber obedient to his wishes, and for fifteen minutes labored over a wheezing pump.
It was nearly midnight when he came laboring into Two Palms under the flooding moonlight, and with sighs of fervent relief brought his vehicle to a halt beside the dark and silent frame of the hotel.
"No, I guess I'll stick to the name," he thought, as he climbed out and gazed at the silvern glory of the night. "Clairedelune! Shall I let a big yellow man drive all the romance out of things? Not yet. Find the best that remains in your life, my boy, and transmute it into precious metal if you can; you need it! Well, it's been a strenuous day—I'm for bed. Time enough in the morning to organize the rescue party."