“Don’t mention it.” He laughed. “’Tain’t the first time I’ve had a lady throw herself at my head.”
“It’s a poor joke!” she declared. But she laughed, too.
He began to talk to her again, then; and presently began once more to ask questions.
“What you got in that big hand bag?” he queried.
“What should I have in it? My clothing, of course.”
Suddenly the expression of his face changed, and she knew him—knew that this little man was Tim Benson himself—Benson, the terrible desperado and road agent; and she knew she had nothing to expect from him in the way of favors.
She started up with a little cry, but a jerk of the stage threw her back against the cushions, while the rattle of the wheels over the rough trail drowned her cry so that it did not reach the driver.
“That’s all right,” said Benson; “I see you know now who I am!”
“Yes, but——”
“Just a little trick I have, by which I fool both my friends and my enemies. It’s easy, when one has the gift, and knows how. Just draw up a few facial lines here, and a few others down there, elevate your brows, squint your eyes a little—just a little!—change the appearance of your hair, and the thing is done. Nothing easier.”