Once within the friendly shadows of the long belt of pines, Mrs. Baker kept them until she had left the limited settlement of Laurel Run far to the right, and came upon an open slope of Burnt Ridge, where she knew Jo Simmons’ mustang, Blue Lightning, would be quietly feeding. She had often ridden him before, and when she had detached the fifty-foot reata from his head-stall, he permitted her the further recognized familiarity of twining her fingers in his bluish mane and climbing on his back. The tool-shed of Burnt Ridge Tunnel, where Jo’s saddle and bridle always hung, was but a canter farther on. She reached it unperceived, and—another trick of the old days—quickly extemporized a side-saddle from Simmons’ Mexican tree, with its high cantle and horn bow, and the aid of a blanket. Then leaping to her seat, she rapidly threw off her mantle, tied it by its sleeves around her waist, tucked it under one knee, and let it fall over her horse’s flanks. By this time Blue Lightning was also struck with a flash of equine recollection and pricked up his ears. Mrs. Baker uttered a little chirping cry which he remembered, and the next moment they were both careering over the Ridge.

The trail that she had taken, though precipitate, difficult, and dangerous in places, was a clear gain of two miles on the stage road. There was less chance of her being followed or meeting any one. The greater canyons were already in shadow; the pines on the farther ridges were separating their masses, and showing individual silhouettes against the sky, but the air was still warm, and the cool breath of night, as she well knew it, had not yet begun to flow down the mountain. The lower range of Burnt Ridge was still uneclipsed by the creeping shadow of the mountain ahead of her. Without a watch, but with this familiar and slowly changing dial spread out before her, she knew the time to a minute. Heavy Tree Hill, a lesser height in the distance, was already wiped out by that shadowy index finger—half past seven! The stage would be at Hickory Hill just before half past eight; she ought to anticipate it, if possible,—it would stay ten minutes to change horses,—she MUST arrive before it left!

There was a good two-mile level before the rise of the next range. Now, Blue Lightning! all you know! And that was much,—for with the little chip hat and fluttering ribbons well bent down over the bluish mane, and the streaming gauze of her mantle almost level with the horse’s back, she swept down across the long tableland like a skimming blue-jay. A few more bird-like dips up and down the undulations, and then came the long, cruel ascent of the Divide.

Acrid with perspiration, caking with dust, slithering in the slippery, impalpable powder of the road, groggily staggering in a red dusty dream, coughing, snorting, head-tossing; becoming suddenly dejected, with slouching haunch and limp legs on easy slopes, or wildly spasmodic and agile on sharp acclivities, Blue Lightning began to have ideas and recollections! Ah! she was a devil for a lark—this lightly-clinging, caressing, blarneying, cooing creature—up there! He remembered her now. Ha! very well then. Hoop-la! And suddenly leaping out like a rabbit, bucking, trotting hard, ambling lightly, “loping” on three legs and recreating himself,—as only a California mustang could,—the invincible Blue Lightning at last stood triumphantly upon the summit. The evening star had just pricked itself through the golden mist of the horizon line,—eight o’clock! She could do it now! But here, suddenly, her first hesitation seized her. She knew her horse, she knew the trail, she knew herself,—but did she know THE MAN to whom she was riding? A cold chill crept over her, and then she shivered in a sudden blast; it was Night at last swooping down from the now invisible Sierras, and possessing all it touched. But it was only one long descent to Hickory Hill now, and she swept down securely on its wings. Half-past eight! The lights of the settlement were just ahead of her—but so, too, were the two lamps of the waiting stage before the post-office and hotel.

Happily the lounging crowd were gathered around the hotel, and she slipped into the post-office from the rear, unperceived. As she stepped behind the partition, its only occupant—a good-looking young fellow with a reddish mustache—turned towards her with a flush of delighted surprise. But it changed at the sight of the white, determined face and the brilliant eyes that had never looked once towards him, but were fixed upon a large bag, whose yawning mouth was still open and propped up beside his desk.

“Where is the through money letter that came in that bag?” she said quickly.

“What—do—you—mean?” he stammered, with a face that had suddenly grown whiter than her own.

“I mean that it’s a DECOY, checked at Heavy Tree Crossing, and that Mr. Home, of San Francisco, is now waiting at my office to know if you have taken it!”

The laugh and lie that he had at first tried to summon to mouth and lips never reached them. For, under the spell of her rigid, truthful face, he turned almost mechanically to his desk, and took out a package.

“Good God! you’ve opened it already!” she cried, pointing to the broken seal.

The expression on her face, more than anything she had said, convinced him that she knew all. He stammered under the new alarm that her despairing tone suggested. “Yes!—I was owing some bills—the collector was waiting here for the money, and I took something from the packet. But I was going to make it up by next mail—I swear it.”

“How much have you taken?”

“Only a trifle. I”—

“How much?”

“A hundred dollars!”

She dragged the money she had brought from Laurel Run from her pocket, and counting out the sum, replaced it in the open package. He ran quickly to get the sealing wax, but she motioned him away as she dropped the package back into the mail-bag. “No; as long as the money is found in the bag the package may have been broken ACCIDENTALLY. Now burst open one or two of those other packages a little—so;” she took out a packet of letters and bruised their official wrappings under her little foot until the tape fastening was loosened. “Now give me something heavy.” She caught up a brass two-pound weight, and in the same feverish but collected haste wrapped it in paper, sealed it, stamped it, and, addressing it in a large printed hand to herself at Laurel Hill, dropped it in the bag. Then she closed it and locked it; he would have assisted her, but she again waved him away. “Send for the expressman, and keep yourself out of the way for a moment,” she said curtly.

An attitude of weak admiration and foolish passion had taken the place of his former tremulous fear. He obeyed excitedly, but without a word. Mrs. Baker wiped her moist forehead and parched lips, and shook out her skirt. Well might the young expressman start at the unexpected revelation of those sparkling eyes and that demurely smiling mouth at the little window.

“Mrs. Baker!”

She put her finger quickly to her lips, and threw a world of unutterable and enigmatical meaning into her mischievous face.

“There’s a big San Francisco swell takin’ my place at Laurel to-night, Charley.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And it’s a pity that the Omnibus Way Bag happened to get such a shaking up and banging round already, coming here.”

“Eh?”

“I say,” continued Mrs. Baker, with great gravity and dancing eyes, “that it would be just AWFUL if that keerful city clerk found things kinder mixed up inside when he comes to open it. I wouldn’t give him trouble for the world, Charley.”

“No, ma’am, it ain’t like you.”

“So you’ll be particularly careful on MY account.”

“Mrs. Baker,” said Charley, with infinite gravity, “if that bag SHOULD TUMBLE OFF A DOZEN TIMES between this and Laurel Hill, I’ll hop down and pick it up myself.”

“Thank you! shake!”

They shook hands gravely across the window-ledge.

“And you ain’t going down with us, Mrs. Baker?”

“Of course not; it wouldn’t do,—for I AIN’T HERE,—don’t you see?”

“Of course!”

She handed him the bag through the door. He took it carefully, but in spite of his great precaution fell over it twice on his way to the road, where from certain exclamations and shouts it seemed that a like miserable mischance attended its elevation to the boot. Then Mrs. Baker came back into the office, and, as the wheels rolled away, threw herself into a chair, and inconsistently gave way for the first time to an outburst of tears. Then her hand was grasped suddenly and she found Green on his knees before her. She started to her feet.

“Don’t move,” he said, with weak hysteric passion, “but listen to me, for God’s sake! I am ruined, I know, even though you have just saved me from detection and disgrace. I have been mad!—a fool, to do what I have done, I know, but you do not know all—you do not know why I did it—you cannot think of the temptation that has driven me to it. Listen, Mrs. Baker. I have been striving to get money, honestly, dishonestly—any way, to look well in YOUR eyes—to make myself worthy of you—to make myself rich, and to be able to offer you a home and take you away from Laurel Run. It was all for YOU, it was all for love of YOU, Betsy, my darling. Listen to me!”

In the fury, outraged sensibility, indignation, and infinite disgust that filled her little body at that moment, she should have been large, imperious, goddess-like, and commanding. But God is at times ironical with suffering womanhood. She could only writhe her hand from his grasp with childish contortions; she could only glare at him with eyes that were prettily and piquantly brilliant; she could only slap at his detaining hand with a plump and velvety palm, and when she found her voice it was high falsetto. And all she could say was, “Leave me be, looney, or I’ll scream!”

He rose, with a weak, confused laugh, half of miserable affectation and half of real anger and shame.

“What did you come riding over here for, then? What did you take all this risk for? Why did you rush over here to share my disgrace—for YOU are as much mixed up with this now as I am—if you didn’t calculate to share EVERYTHING ELSE with me? What did you come here for, then, if not for ME?”

“What did I come here for?” said Mrs. Baker, with every drop of red blood gone from her cheek and trembling lip. “What—did—I—come here for? Well!—I came here for JOHN BAKER’S sake! John Baker, who stood between you and death at Burnt Ridge, as I stand between you and damnation at Laurel Run, Mr. Green! Yes, John Baker, lying under half of Burnt Ridge, but more to me this day than any living man crawling over it—in—in”—oh, fatal climax!—“in a month o’ Sundays! What did I come here for? I came here as John Baker’s livin’ wife to carry on dead John Baker’s work. Yes, dirty work this time, may be, Mr. Green! but his work and for HIM only—precious! That’s what I came here for; that’s what I LIVE for; that’s what I’m waiting for—to be up to HIM and his work always! That’s me—Betsy Baker!”

She walked up and down rapidly, tying her chip hat under her chin again. Then she stopped, and taking her chamois purse from her pocket, laid it sharply on the desk.

“Stanton Green, don’t be a fool! Rise up out of this, and be a man again. Take enough out o’ that bag to pay what you owe Gov’ment, send in your resignation, and keep the rest to start you in an honest life elsewhere. But light out o’ Hickory Hill afore this time to-morrow.”

She pulled her mantle from the wall and opened the door.

“You are going?” he said bitterly.

“Yes.” Either she could not hold seriousness long in her capricious little fancy, or, with feminine tact, she sought to make the parting less difficult for him, for she broke into a dazzling smile. “Yes, I’m goin’ to run Blue Lightning agin Charley and that way bag back to Laurel Run, and break the record.”

It is said that she did! Perhaps owing to the fact that the grade of the return journey to Laurel Run was in her favor, and that she could avoid the long, circuitous ascent to the summit taken by the stage, or that, owing to the extraordinary difficulties in the carriage of the way bag,—which had to be twice rescued from under the wheels of the stage,—she entered the Laurel Run post-office as the coach leaders came trotting up the hill. Mr. Home was already on the platform.

“You’ll have to ballast your next way bag, boss,” said Charley, gravely, as it escaped his clutches once more in the dust of the road, “or you’ll have to make a new contract with the company. We’ve lost ten minutes in five miles over that bucking thing.”

Home did not reply, but quickly dragged his prize into the office, scarcely noticing Mrs. Baker, who stood beside him pale and breathless. As the bolt of the bag was drawn, revealing its chaotic interior, Mrs. Baker gave a little sigh. Home glanced quickly at her, emptied the bag upon the floor, and picked up the broken and half-filled money parcel. Then he collected the scattered coins and counted them. “It’s all right, Mrs. Baker,” he said gravely. “HE’S safe this time.”

“I’m so glad!” said little Mrs. Baker, with a hypocritical gasp.

“So am I,” returned Home, with increasing gravity, as he took the coin, “for, from all I have gathered this afternoon, it seems he was an old pioneer of Laurel Run, a friend of your husband’s, and, I think, more fool than knave!” He was silent for a moment, clicking the coins against each other; then he said carelessly: “Did he get quite away, Mrs. Baker?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Mrs. Baker, with a lofty air of dignity, but a somewhat debasing color. “I don’t see why I should know anything about it, or why he should go away at all.”

“Well,” said Mr. Home, laying his hand gently on the widow’s shoulder, “well, you see, it might have occurred to his friends that the COINS WERE MARKED! That is, no doubt, the reason why he would take their good advice and go. But, as I said before, Mrs. Baker, YOU’RE all right, whatever happens,—the Government stands by YOU!”

A NIGHT AT “HAYS.”

CHAPTER I

It was difficult to say if Hays’ farmhouse, or “Hays,” as it was familiarly called, looked any more bleak and cheerless that winter afternoon than it usually did in the strong summer sunshine. Painted a cold merciless white, with scant projections for shadows, a roof of white-pine shingles, bleached lighter through sun and wind, and covered with low, white-capped chimneys, it looked even more stark and chilly than the drifts which had climbed its low roadside fence, and yet seemed hopeless of gaining a foothold on the glancing walls, or slippery, wind-swept roof. The storm, which had already heaped the hollows of the road with snow, hurled its finely-granulated flakes against the building, but they were whirled along the gutters and ridges, and disappeared in smokelike puffs across the icy roof. The granite outcrop in the hilly field beyond had long ago whitened and vanished; the dwarf firs and larches which had at first taken uncouth shapes in the drift blended vaguely together, and then merged into an unbroken formless wave. But the gaunt angles and rigid outlines of the building remained sharp and unchanged. It would seem as if the rigors of winter had only accented their hardness, as the fierceness of summer had previously made them intolerable.

It was believed that some of this unyielding grimness attached to Hays himself. Certain it is that neither hardship nor prosperity had touched his character. Years ago his emigrant team had broken down in this wild but wooded defile of the Sierras, and he had been forced to a winter encampment, with only a rude log-cabin for shelter, on the very verge of the promised land. Unable to enter it himself, he was nevertheless able to assist the better-equipped teams that followed him with wood and water and a coarse forage gathered from a sheltered slope of wild oats. This was the beginning of a rude “supply station” which afterwards became so profitable that when spring came and Hays’ team were sufficiently recruited to follow the flood of immigrating gold-seekers to the placers and valleys, there seemed no occasion for it. His fortune had been already found in the belt of arable slope behind the wooded defile, and in the miraculously located coign of vantage on what was now the great highway of travel and the only oasis and first relief of the weary journey; the breaking down of his own team at that spot had not only been the salvation of those who found at “Hays” the means of prosecuting the last part of their pilgrimage, but later provided the equipment of returning teams.

The first two years of this experience had not been without hardship and danger. He had been raided by Indians and besieged for three days in his stockaded cabin; he had been invested by wintry drifts of twenty feet of snow, cut off equally from incoming teams from the pass and the valley below. During the second year his wife had joined him with four children, but whether the enforced separation had dulled her conjugal affection, or whether she was tempted by a natural feminine longing for the land of promise beyond, she sought it one morning with a fascinating teamster, leaving her two sons and two daughters behind her; two years later the elder of the daughters followed the mother’s example, with such maidenly discretion, however, as to forbear compromising herself by any previous matrimonial formality whatever. From that day Hays had no further personal intercourse with the valley below. He put up a hotel a mile away from the farmhouse that he might not have to dispense hospitality to his customers, nor accept their near companionship. Always a severe Presbyterian, and an uncompromising deacon of a far-scattered and scanty community who occasionally held their service in one of his barns, he grew more rigid, sectarian, and narrow day by day. He was feared, and although neither respected nor loved, his domination and endurance were accepted. A grim landlord, hard creditor, close-fisted patron, and a smileless neighbor who neither gambled nor drank, “Old Hays,” as he was called, while yet scarce fifty, had few acquaintances and fewer friends. There were those who believed that his domestic infelicities were the result of his unsympathetic nature; it never occurred to any one (but himself probably) that they might have been the cause. In those Sierran altitudes, as elsewhere, the belief in original sin—popularly known as “pure cussedness”—dominated and overbore any consideration of passive, impelling circumstances or temptation, unless they had been actively demonstrated with a revolver. The passive expression of harshness, suspicion, distrust, and moroseness was looked upon as inherent wickedness.

The storm raged violently as Hays emerged from the last of a long range of outbuildings and sheds, and crossed the open space between him and the farmhouse. Before he had reached the porch, with its scant shelter, he had floundered through a snowdrift, and faced the full fury of the storm. But the snow seemed to have glanced from his hard angular figure as it had from his roof-ridge, for when he entered the narrow hall-way his pilot jacket was unmarked, except where a narrow line of powdered flakes outlined the seams as if worn. To the right was an apartment, half office, half sitting-room, furnished with a dark and chilly iron safe, a sofa and chairs covered with black and coldly shining horsehair. Here Hays not only removed his upper coat but his under one also, and drawing a chair before the fire sat down in his shirt-sleeves. It was his usual rustic pioneer habit, and might have been some lingering reminiscence of certain remote ancestors to whom clothes were an impediment. He was warming his hands and placidly ignoring his gaunt arms in their thinly-clad “hickory” sleeves, when a young girl of eighteen sauntered, half perfunctorily, half inquisitively into the room. It was his only remaining daughter. Already elected by circumstances to a dry household virginity, her somewhat large features, sallow complexion, and tasteless, unattractive dress, did not obviously suggest a sacrifice. Since her sister’s departure she had taken sole charge of her father’s domestic affairs and the few rude servants he employed, with a certain inherited following of his own moods and methods. To the neighbors she was known as “Miss Hays,”—a dubious respect that, in a community of familiar “Sallies,” “Mamies,” “Pussies,” was grimly prophetic. Yet she rejoiced in the Oriental appellation of “Zuleika.” To this it is needless to add that it was impossible to conceive any one who looked more decidedly Western.

“Ye kin put some things in my carpet bag agin the time the sled comes round,” said her father meditatively, without looking up.

“Then you’re not coming back tonight?” asked the girl curiously. “What’s goin’ on at the summit, father?”

“I am,” he said grimly. “You don’t reckon I kalkilate to stop thar! I’m going on as far as Horseley’s to close up that contract afore the weather changes.”

“I kinder allowed it was funny you’d go to the hotel to-night. There’s a dance there; those two Wetherbee girls and Mamie Harris passed up the road an hour ago on a wood-sled, nigh blown to pieces and sittin’ up in the snow like skeert white rabbits.”

Hays’ brow darkened heavily.

“Let ‘em go,” he said, in a hard voice that the fire did not seem to have softened. “Let ‘em go for all the good their fool-parents will ever get outer them, or the herd of wayside cattle they’ve let them loose among.

“I reckon they haven’t much to do at home, or are hard put for company, to travel six miles in the snow to show off their prinkin’ to a lot of idle louts shiny with bear’s grease and scented up with doctor’s stuff,” added the girl, shrugging her shoulders, with a touch of her father’s mood and manner.

Perhaps it struck Hays at that moment that her attitude was somewhat monstrous and unnatural for one still young and presumably like other girls, for, after glancing at her under his heavy brows, he said, in a gentler tone:—

“Never YOU mind, Zuly. When your brother Jack comes home he’ll know what’s what, and have all the proper New York ways and style. It’s nigh on three years now that he’s had the best training Dr. Dawson’s Academy could give,—sayin’ nothing of the pow’ful Christian example of one of the best preachers in the States. They mayn’t have worldly, ungodly fandangoes where he is, and riotous livin’, and scarlet abominations, but I’ve been told that they’ve ‘tea circles,’ and ‘assemblies,’ and ‘harmony concerts’ of young folks—and dancin’—yes, fine square dancin’ under control. No, I ain’t stinted him in anythin’. You kin remember that, Zuleika, when you hear any more gossip and backbitin’ about your father’s meanness. I ain’t spared no money for him.”

“I reckon not,” said the girl, a little sharply. “Why, there’s that draft fur two hundred and fifty dollars that kem only last week from the Doctor’s fur extras.”

“Yes,” replied Hays, with a slight knitting of the brows, “the Doctor mout hev writ more particklers, but parsons ain’t allus business men. I reckon these here extrys were to push Jack along in the term, as the Doctor knew I wanted him back here in the spring, now that his brother has got to be too stiff-necked and self-opinionated to do his father’s work.” It seemed from this that there had been a quarrel between Hays and his eldest son, who conducted his branch business at Sacramento, and who had in a passion threatened to set up a rival establishment to his father’s. And it was also evident from the manner of the girl that she was by no means a strong partisan of her father in the quarrel.

“You’d better find out first how all the schoolin’ and trainin’ of Jack’s is goin’ to jibe with the Ranch, and if he ain’t been eddicated out of all knowledge of station business or keer for it. New York ain’t Hays’ Ranch, and these yer ‘assemblies’ and ‘harmony’ doin’s and their airs and graces may put him out of conceit with our plain ways. I reckon ye didn’t take that to mind when you’ve been hustlin’ round payin’ two hundred and fifty dollar drafts for Jack and quo’llin’ with Bijah! I ain’t sayin’ nothin’, father, only mebbe if Bijah had had drafts and extrys flourished around him a little more, mebbe he’d have been more polite and not so rough spoken. Mebbe,” she continued with a little laugh, “even I’D be a little more in the style to suit Master Jack when he comes ef I had three hundred dollars’ worth of convent schoolin’ like Mamie Harris.”

“Yes, and you’d have only made yourself fair game for ev’ry schemin’, lazy sport or counter-jumper along the road from this to Sacramento!” responded Hays savagely.

Zuleika laughed again constrainedly, but in a way that might have suggested that this dreadful contingency was still one that it was possible to contemplate without entire consternation. As she moved slowly towards the door she stopped, with her hand on the lock, and said tentatively: “I reckon you won’t be wantin’ any supper before you go? You’re almost sure to be offered suthin’ up at Horseley’s, while if I have to cook you up suthin’ now and still have the men’s regular supper to get at seven, it makes all the expense of an extra meal.”

Hays hesitated. He would have preferred his supper now, and had his daughter pressed him would have accepted it. But economy, which was one of Zuleika’s inherited instincts, vaguely appearing to him to be a virtue, interchangeable with chastity and abstemiousness, was certainly to be encouraged in a young girl. It hardly seems possible that with an eye single to the integrity of the larder she could ever look kindly on the blandishments of his sex, or, indeed, be exposed to them. He said simply: “Don’t cook for me,” and resumed his attitude before the fire as the girl left the room.

As he sat there, grim and immovable as one of the battered fire-dogs before him, the wind in the chimney seemed to carry on a deep-throated, dejected, and confidential conversation with him, but really had very little to reveal. There were no haunting reminiscences of his married life in this room, which he had always occupied in preference to the company or sitting-room beyond. There were no familiar shadows of the past lurking in its corners to pervade his reverie. When he did reflect, which was seldom, there was always in his mind a vague idea of a central injustice to which he had been subjected, that was to be avoided by circuitous movement, to be hidden by work, but never to be surmounted. And to-night he was going out in the storm, which he could understand and fight, as he had often done before, and he was going to drive a bargain with a man like himself and get the better of him if he could, as he had done before, and another day would be gone, and that central injustice which he could not understand would be circumvented, and he would still be holding his own in the world. And the God of Israel whom he believed in, and who was a hard but conscientious Providence, something like himself, would assist him perhaps some day to the understanding of this same vague injustice which He was, for some strange reason, permitting. But never more unrelenting and unsparing of others than when under conviction of Sin himself, and never more harsh and unforgiving than when fresh from the contemplation of the Divine Mercy, he still sat there grimly holding his hand to a warmth that never seemed to get nearer his heart than that, when his daughter re-entered the room with his carpet-bag.

To rise, put on his coat and overcoat, secure a fur cap on his head by a woolen comforter, covering his ears and twined round his throat, and to rigidly offer a square and weather-beaten cheek to his daughter’s dusty kiss, did not, apparently, suggest any lingering or hesitation. The sled was at the door, which, for a tumultuous moment, opened on the storm and the white vision of a horse knee-deep in a drift, and then closed behind him. Zuleika shot the bolt, brushed some flakes of the invading snow from the mat, and, after frugally raking down the fire on the hearth her father had just quitted, retired through the long passage to the kitchen and her domestic supervision.

It was a few hours later, supper had long past; the “hands” had one by one returned to their quarters under the roof or in the adjacent lofts, and Zuleika and the two maids had at last abandoned the kitchen for their bedrooms beyond. Zuleika herself, by the light of a solitary candle, had entered the office and had dropped meditatively into a chair, as she slowly raked the warm ashes over the still smouldering fire. The barking of dogs had momentarily attracted her attention, but it had suddenly ceased. It was followed, however, by a more startling incident,—a slight movement outside, and an attempt to raise the window!

She was not frightened; perhaps there was little for her to fear; it was known that Hays kept no money in the house, the safe was only used for securities and contracts, and there were half a dozen men within call. It was, therefore, only her usual active, burning curiosity for novel incident that made her run to the window and peer out; but it was with a spontaneous cry of astonishment she turned and darted to the front door, and opened it to the muffled figure of a young man.

“Jack! Saints alive! Why, of all things!” she gasped, incoherently.

He stopped her with an impatient gesture and a hand that prevented her from closing the door again.

“Dad ain’t here?” he asked quickly.

“No.”

“When’ll he be back?”

“Not to-night.”

“Good,” he said, turning to the door again. She could see a motionless horse and sleigh in the road, with a woman holding the reins.

He beckoned to the woman, who drove to the door and jumped out. Tall, handsome, and audacious, she looked at Zuleika with a quick laugh of confidence, as at some recognized absurdity.

“Go in there,” said the young man, opening the door of the office; “I’ll come back in a minute.”