“Can you tell me if Waynefleet’s ranch is near here?” he asked.
Laura glanced at him sharply, for there was no doubt that he was English, and she wondered, with a faint uneasiness, what his business was. In the meanwhile the big, slowly-moving beasts had stopped and stood still, blowing through their nostrils and regarding the stranger with mild, contemplative eyes. One of them turned its head towards the girl inquiringly, and the man laughed.
“One could almost fancy they wondered what I was doing here,” he remarked.
“The ranch is about a mile in front of you,” said Laura in answer to his question. “You are going there?”
“I am,” said the man. “I want to see Miss Waynefleet. They told me to ask for her at the store.”
Laura looked at him again with some astonishment.
He was a little man, apparently about fifty, plainly dressed in what appeared to be English clothing. Nothing in his appearance suggested that he was a person of any importance, or, indeed, of much education, but she liked the way in which he had laughed when the ox had turned towards her.
“Then,” she replied, “as that is my name, you need not go any further.”
The man made a little bow. “Mine’s Wisbech, and I belong to the Birmingham district, England,” he explained. “I walked over from the settlement to make a few inquiries about a relative of mine called Derrick Nasmyth. They told me at the store that you would probably know where he is, and what he is doing.”