Then Duane went from place to place, corner to corner, bar to bar, watching, listening, recording. The excitement had preceded him, and speculation was rife. He thought best to keep out of it. After dark he stole up to Longstreth's ranch. The evening was warm; the doors were open; and in the twilight the only lamps that had been lit were in Longstreth's big sitting-room, at the far end of the house. When a buckboard drove up and Longstreth and Lawson alighted, Duane was well hidden in the bushes, so well screened that he could get but a fleeting glimpse of Longstreth as he went in. For all Duane could see, he appeared to be a calm and quiet man, intense beneath the surface, with an air of dignity under insult. Duane's chance to observe Lawson was lost. They went into the house without speaking and closed the door.
At the other end of the porch, close under a window, was an offset between step and wall, and there in the shadow Duane hid. So Duane waited there in the darkness with patience born of many hours of hiding.
Presently a lamp was lit; and Duane heard the swish of skirts.
“Something's happened surely, Ruth,” he heard Miss Longstreth say, anxiously. “Papa just met me in the hall and didn't speak. He seemed pale, worried.”
“Cousin Floyd looked like a thunder-cloud,” said Ruth. “For once he didn't try to kiss me. Something's happened. Well, Ray, this had been a bad day.”
“Oh, dear! Ruth, what can we do? These are wild men. Floyd makes life miserable for me. And he teases you unmer—”
“I don't call it teasing. Floyd wants to spoon,” declared Ruth, emphatically. “He'd run after any woman.”
“A fine compliment to me, Cousin Ruth,” laughed Ray.
“I don't care,” replied Ruth, stubbornly, “it's so. He's mushy. And when he's been drinking and tries to kiss me—I hate him!”
There were steps on the hall floor.