“Whom did you take that man to be, Mr. Selfridge?” asked Shirley, and in her eagerness she bent down above the mountaineer’s bared tangle of tow.
“The name you called him ain’t it. It’s a queer name I never heerd tell on befo’—it’s—it’s like the a’my—”
“Is it Armitage?” asked Shirley quickly.
“That’s it, Miss! The postmaster over at Lamar told me to look out fer ’im. He’s moved up hy’eh, and it ain’t fer no good. The word’s out that a city man’s lookin’ for some_thing_ or some_body_ in these hills. And the man’s stayin’—”
“Where?”
“At the huntin’ club where folks don’t go no more. I ain’t seen him, but th’ word’s passed. He’s a city man and a stranger, and got a little fella’ that’s been a soldier into th’ army stayin’ with ’im. I thought yo’ furriner was him, Miss, honest to God I did.”
The incident amused Shirley and she laughed aloud. She had undoubtedly gained information that Chauvenet had gone forth to seek; she had—and the thing was funny—served Chauvenet well in explaining away his presence in the mountains and getting him out of the clutches of the mountaineer, while at the same time she was learning for herself the fact of Armitage’s whereabouts and keeping it from Chauvenet. It was a curious adventure, and she gave her hand smilingly to the mystified and still doubting mountaineer.
“I give you my word of honor that neither man is a government officer and neither one has the slightest interest in you—will you believe me?”
“I reckon I got to, Miss.”
“Good; and now, Mr. Selfridge, it is growing dark and I want you to walk down this trail with me until we come to the Storm Springs road.”