Keith watched the sturdy figure stomp heavily down the hall-way, loose boards creaking under his positive tread, and smiled to himself at the thought that he might have, indeed, become truly interested in the music hall singer. Somehow, the doctor did not harmonize with the conception of love, or fit graciously into the picture. Still, stranger matings had occurred, and Cupid does not ask permission before he plays pranks with hearts. Keith turned again toward the stairs, only to observe a woman slowly cross the office and commence the ascent. She was in the shadow, her face even more deeply shaded by her hat, yet he stared at her in amazement—surely, it was Miss Maclaire! Yet how could it be? He had left that person scarcely five minutes before in “26,” and this stairway was the only exit. His hand grasped the rail, his heart throbbing strangely, as a suspicion of the truth crossed his brain. Could this be Hope? Could it be that she was here also? As her foot touched the landing, she saw him, her eyes lighting up suddenly in recognition, a wave of color flooding her cheeks.
“Why, Captain Keith,” she exclaimed, extending her gloved hand frankly, “you have been to my room, and were going away. I am so glad I came in time.”
“I hardly thought to meet you,” he replied, retaining her fingers in his grasp. “When did you reach Sheridan?”
“Only last night. I had no idea you were here, until Doctor Fairbain chanced to mention your name. Then I at once begged him to tell you how exceedingly anxious I was to see you. You see, I was sure you would come if you only knew. I really thought you would be here this morning, and remained in my room waiting, but there were some things I actually had to have. I wasn't out ten minutes, so you mustn't think I sent you a message and then forgot.”
The nature of the mistake was becoming apparent, and Keith's gray eyes smiled as they looked into the depths of the brown.
“Your message had rather an amusing result,” he said, “as the doctor informed me that Miss Christie Maclaire was the one who desired my presence.”
“Miss Maclaire!” her voice exhibiting startled surprise. “Why—why—oh, I did forget; I never told him differently. Why, it was most ridiculous.” She laughed, white teeth gleaming between the parted red lips, yet not altogether happily. “Let me explain, Captain Keith, for really I have not been masquerading. Doctor Fairbain and I arrived upon the same train last evening. He is such a funny man, but was very nice, and offered to escort me to the hotel. I remember now that although he introduced himself, I never once thought to mention to him my name. The town was very rough last night—the company had paid off the graders I was told—and there was no carriage, so we were compelled to walk. I—I never saw such a mob of drunken men. One came reeling against me, and brushed aside my veil so as to see my face. The doctor struck him, and then the marshal came up—you know him, Bill Hickock—and the impudent fellow actually declared he knew me, that I was Christie Maclaire. I tried to explain, but they hurried me on through the crowd to the hotel, and I became confused, and forgot. Do you suppose they registered me by that name?”
“Quite likely; at least Fairbain still believes it was the fair Christie whom he so gallantly escorted last night.”
“How provoking,” her foot tapping the floor, a little wrinkle between her eyes. “It seems as though I couldn't escape that woman—does she—does she really look like me?”
“At a little distance, yes,” he admitted, “her form and face resemble yours very closely, but her hair is darker, her eyes have a different expression, and she must be five or six years older.”