“I have Patsy shadowing both houses, in case she goes there. That is not likely, however.”
“Not at all,” replied Chick. “Women don’t fancy dead bodies, and shrink from going where they are. Yet she’s about as bad a trickster in petticoats as I ever met.”
“I’ll go and tell the encouraging news to Flood and Harry Royal,” said Nick. “Then we will get ourselves in shape for the round-up.”
At noon that day the yellow-haired chap, who had been at the Waldorf for nearly ten days, appeared at the famous hotel with a companion—his uncle.
No man, however suspicious, would have recognized Nick in the disguise he then wore.
His face was stained to a hue acquired only by long exposure to the burning sun of the plains. His hair was coarse and black, and a heavy beard concealed the lower portion of his face. Two of his teeth had been “stopped out,” which, when he laughed, gave his mouth a peculiarly repulsive look. His hands gave evidence of much labor, and his figure was rounded at the shoulders and several inches below its normal height. He was clad in a suit characteristic of the part he had assumed, and presented, indeed, a most striking picture.
Precisely at six o’clock, Belle Braddon, arrayed in the height of fashion, arrived in a carriage at the hotel, where Chick received her and took her to his suite of rooms.
He had already cautioned her against appearing to be greatly amused by the oddities and roughness of the Western ranchman; yet when Belle Braddon met Nick and was introduced to him she scarcely could contain herself. She thought for sure that she was up against a genuine Western “Rube.”
A sonorous bass laugh came from Nick when they were introduced, to which was boisterously added, with a familiarity that tickled the girl immensely:
“So you’re the gal my Archie’s run up agin’, are you?”