"Won't you sit down?" he invited the new-comer.
Sidwell moved toward the door. "No, thank you. With your permission I'll go inside. I presume Miss Baker—"
But the Englishman was ahead of him. "Yes," he said, "she's at home. I'll call her," and he disappeared.
Watching the retreating figure, Sidwell's black eyes tightened, but he returned and took the place Scotty had vacated. He gave his companion a glance which, swift as a flash of light upon a sensitized plate, took in every detail of the figure, the bizarre dress, the striking face.
"You are from the West, I judge, Mr. Blair?" he interrogated.
"Dakota," said Ben, laconically.
Sidwell's gaze centred on the sombrero. "Cattle raising, perhaps?" he ventured.
Ben nodded. "Yes, I have a few head east of the river." He returned the other's look, and Sidwell had the impression that a searchlight was suddenly shifted upon him. "Ever been out there?"
The city man indicated an affirmative. "Yes, twice: the last time about four years ago. I went out on purpose to see a steer-roping contest, on the ranch of a man by the name of Gilbert, I remember. A cowboy they called Pete carried off the honors; had his 'critter' down and tied in forty-two seconds. They told me that was slow time, but I thought it lightning itself."
"The trick can be done in thirty-five with the wildest," commented Ben.