“Certainly; where shall I write to you when there is news of the mine to send?”
“Mr. Banks of New York always has my address.”
The girl held forward her hand.
“Good-bye to you, Lord Stranleigh of Wychwood,” she said.
For the first time in his life, his lordship neglected to take the proffered hand of a lady.
“Are you making a guess, or stating a certainty, Miss Armstrong?”
“I guess it’s a certainty. I saw in a New York paper that Earl Stranleigh of Wychwood was coming into this district to shoot. Then from Jim’s ear I unbound a handkerchief with a crest and a monogram on it.”
Stranleigh laughed, and took the hand still outstretched to him.
The End.