“Time’s nearly up, dearest. See through that window, Fyles and Joe are coming over to you. Is it marry, or am I to go to the Arctic regions fishing for polar bears without an overcoat? I don’t care which it is—I mean—no. Yes, quick! They’re on the verandah.”
The girl nodded. “Yes,” she said, so low that his face came in contact with hers in his effort to hear, and stayed there until the burly sheriff knocked at the door.
He entered, followed by Joe. Tresler and Diane were standing side by side. He was still holding her hand.
“Fyles,” Tresler said at once, beaming upon both men, “let me present you to the future Mrs. John Tresler. Joe,” he added, turning on the little man who was twisting his slouch hat up unmercifully in his nervous hand, and grinning ferociously, “are the corrals prepared, and have you got my branding-irons ready? You see I’ve rounded her up.”
The little man grinned worse than ever, and appeared to be in imminent peril of extending his torn mouth into the region of his ear. Diane listened to the horrible suggestion without misgiving, merely remarking in true wifely fashion—
“Don’t be absurd, Jack!”
At which Fyles smiled with appreciation. Then he coughed to bring them to seriousness, and produced an official envelope from his tunic pocket.
“I’ve just brought you the verdict on your property, Miss Marbolt,” he said deliberately. “Shall I read it to you, or would you——?”
“Never mind the reading,” said Diane impulsively. “Tell me the contents.”