"Thank you very much, Mr. de Laney, but Mr. Fay is right—I wouldn't trouble you." Her eyes commanded Fay, and he moved a little apart.
"Don't be angry," she pleaded hurriedly, in an undertone, "but it's better that way to-night. And I think you acted grandly."
"You are the one who acted grandly," he replied, a little mollified. "How can I ever thank you? You came just in time."
She laughed.
"You're not angry, are you?" she coaxed.
"No, of course not; what right have I to be?"
"I don't like that—quite—but I suppose it will do. You'll be there to-morrow?"
"You know I will."
"Then good-night." She gave his folded arm a hasty pat and ran on down the hill after Fay, who had gone on. Bennington saw her seize his shoulders, as she overtook him, and give them a severe shake.
The light of the torches down the gulch wavered and disappeared. Bennington returned to his room. On the table lay his manuscript, and the ink was hardly dried on the last word of it. Outside a poor-will began to utter its weird call. The candle before him sputtered, and burned again with a clear flame.