“I see. And you, of course, assured Miss Bruce that I was being murdered, or meeting some such happy and effective ending, out here in the wilderness.”
“Not exactly that, but I reported what I could, and Miss Bruce insisted upon coming out at once. The roads were dreadful, but we had daylight. Also, we have a trophy.”
Linder went out and returned in a moment with a sadly bedraggled hat.
“My poor hat!” Zen exclaimed. “I lost it on the way.”
“It is the best kind of evidence that you had but recently come over the road,” said Linder, significantly.
“I think no more evidence need be called,” said Phyllis. “May I lay off my things?”
“Certainly—certainly,” Grant apologized. “But I must introduce one more exhibit.” He handed her the telegram he had written during the night. “That is the message I wanted Linder to rush to you,” he said, and as she read it he saw the color deepen in her cheeks.
“I’m going to get breakfast, Mr. Grant,” Zen announced with a sudden burst of energy. “Everybody keep out of the kitchen.”
“Guess I’ll feed up for you, this morning, old chap,” said Linder, beating a retreat to the stables.
And when Phyllis had laid aside her coat and hat and had straightened her hair a little in the glass above the mantelpiece she walked straight to Grant and put both her hands in his. “Let me see this boy, Willie Transley,” she said.