"On honor, am I?"
"That's it." He held out a big, brown hand.
"You're going to try to capture the robbers, are you?"
"I've been thinking that way--with the help of Lieutenant Bucky
O'Connor, I mean."
"And I suppose you've promised yourself success."
"It's on the knees of chance, ma'am. We may get them. They may
get us."
"But this prediction of yours?" She held up the sealed envelope.
"That's about another matter."
"But I don't understand. You said--" She gave him a chance to
explain.
"It ain't meant you should. You'll understand plenty at the
proper time."
He offered her his hand again. "We're slowing down for Apache.
Good-by--till next time."
The suede glove came forward, and was buried in his handshake.
He understood it to be an unvoiced apology of its owner for her
suspicions, and his instinct was correct. For how could her
doubts hold their ground when he had showed himself a sharer in
her secret and a guardian of it? And how could anything sinister
lie behind those frank, unwavering eyes or consist with that
long, clean stride that was carrying him so forcefully to the
vestibule?
At Apache no telegrams were found waiting for those who had been
expecting them.
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