The opportunity came one day soon after Harford's return, but his courage almost failed at the moment of meeting, so dainty, so small, so charming, and so bird-like did the young wife seem.
She complimented him again on the condition of the mare and asked, timidly, "How much does my husband pay you?"
"More than I'm worth," he replied, with gloomy self-depreciation.
She caught the note of bitterness in his voice and looked at him a moment in surprised silence, her big eyes full of question. "What made you say that?"
Kelley, repenting of his lack of restraint, smiled and said: "Oh, I felt that way—for a minute. You see, I used to lead a high life of ease. I was a nobleman—an Irish lord."
She smiled and uttered an incredulous word, but he went on:
"Yes, although my name is Kelley, I belong to a long line of kings. I'm working as hostler just to square myself fer having killed a man. You see, my queen was kind o' foolish and reckless and let a certain English duke hang round her till I got locoed, and, being naturally quick on the trigger, I slew him."
She was not stupid. She understood, and with quick, resentful glance she took the reins from his hands and stepped into the carriage.
Kelley, silenced, and with a feeling that he had bungled his job, fell back a pace, while she drove away without so much as a backward glance.
"I reckon she got it," he said, grimly, as he went back to his work. "I didn't put it out just the way I had it in my head, but she 'peared to sense enough of it to call me a Piute for butting in. If that don't work on her I'll tack a warning on the major which nobody will misread fer a joke."