It might have been mere coincidence that during the next few days both Nevada and Panhandle waylaid and conveyed to her intelligence by divers and pathetic arguments the astounding fact that each was Mr. Frank Owens. More likely, however, was it the unerring instinct of lovers who had sensed the importance and significance of this mysterious correspondent’s part in bringing health and happiness into Jane Stacey’s life. She listened to them with anger and sadness and amusement at their deceit, and she had the same answer for both: “I don’t believe you.”
And through these machinations of the cowboys, Jane had begun to have vague and sweet and disturbing suspicions of her own as to the real identity of that mysterious cowboy, Frank Owens. Andy had originality as well as daring. He would have completely deceived Jane if she had not happened, by the merest accident, to discover the relation between him and certain love letters she had begun to find in her desk. She was deceived at first, for the typewriting of these was precisely like that in the letters by Frank Owens. She had been suddenly aware of a wild start of rapture. That had given place to a shameful, open-eyed realization of the serious condition of her own heart. But she happened to discover in Andy the writer of these missives, and her dream was shattered, if not forgotten. Andy certainly would not carry love letters to her that he did not write. He had merely learned to use the same typewriter, and at opportune times he had slipped the letters into her desk. Jane now began to have her own little aching, haunting secret which was so hard to put out of her mind. Every letter and every hint of Frank Owens made her remember. Therefore she decided to put a check to Andy’s sly double-dealing. She addressed a note to him and wrote: “Dear Andy:—That day at the train when you thought I was a poor old schoolmarm you swore you were not Frank Owens. Now you swear you are! If you were a man who knew what truth is you’d have a chance. But now—No! You are a monster of iniquity. I don’t believe you.” She left the note in plain sight where she always found his letters in her desk. The next morning the note was gone. And so was Andy. She did not see him for three days.
It came about that a dance was to be held at Beacon during the late summer. Jane was wild to go. But it developed that she could not accept the escort of any one of her cowboy admirers without alienating the others. And she began to see the visions of this wonderful dance fade away when Springer accosted her. “Who’s the lucky cowboy to take you to our dance?”
“He’s as mysterious and doubtful as Mr. Frank Owens,” replied Jane.
“You don’t mean you haven’t been asked to go?”
“They’ve all asked me. That’s the trouble.”
“I see. But you mustn’t miss it. It’d be pleasant for you to meet some of the ranchers and their wives. Suppose you go with me?”
“Oh, Mr. Springer, I—I’d be delighted,” replied Jane.
“Thank you. Then it’s settled. I must be in town all that day on cattle business—next Friday. I’ll ask the Hartwells to stop here for you, an’ drive you in.” He seemed gravely, kindly interested as always, yet there was something in his eyes that interfered with the regular beating of Jane’s heart.
Jane spent much of the remaining leisure hours on a gown to wear at this dance which promised so much. The Hartwells turned out to be nice people whose little girl was one of Jane’s pupils. On the drive townward, through the crisp fall gloaming, while listening to the chatter of the children, and the talk of the elder Hartwells’, she could not help wondering what Springer would think of her in the new gown.