"No, not the main reason. But that has nothing to do with the subject. I have a right to ask the question. Did you or did you not keep your promise?"

The Englishman's first impulse was to refuse point-blank to answer; then, on second thought, he decided that such a course would be unwise.

The other really did have a right to ask.

"I--" he hesitated, "decided--"

But interrupting, Ben raised his hand, palm outward.

"Don't dodge the question. Yes or no?"

Scotty hesitated again, and his face grew red.

"No," he said.

The visitor's hand, fingers outspread, returned to his knee.

"Thank you. I have one more question to ask. Do you intend, without trying to prevent it, to let your daughter throw away her every chance of future happiness? Are you, Florence's father, going to let her marry Sidwell?"

With one motion Scotty was on his feet. The eyes behind the thick lenses fairly flashed.

"You are insulting, sir," he blazed. "I can stand much from you, Ben Blair, but this interference in my family affairs I cannot overlook. I request you to leave my premises!"

Blair did not stir. His face remained as impa.s.sive as before.

"Your pardon again," he said steadily, "but I refuse. I did not come to quarrel with you, and I won't; but we will have an understanding--now.

Sit down, please."

The Englishman stared, almost with open mouth. Had any one told him he would be coerced in this way within his own home he would have called that person mad; nevertheless, the first flash of anger over, he said no more.

"Sit down, please," repeated Ben; and this time, without a word or a protest, he was obeyed.

Ben straightened in his seat, then leaned forward. "Mr. Baker," he said, "you do not doubt that I love Florence--that I wish nothing but her good?"

Scotty nodded a reluctant a.s.sent.

"No; I don't doubt you, Ben," he said.

The thin face of the younger man leaned forward and grew more intense.

"You know what Sidwell is--what the result will be if Florence marries him?"

Scotty's head dropped into his hands. He knew what was coming.

"Yes, I know," he admitted.

Ben paused, and had the other been looking he would have seen that his ordinarily pa.s.sive face was working in a way which no one would have thought possible.

"In heaven's name, then," he said, slowly, "why do you allow it? Have you forgotten that it is only three days until the date set? G.o.d! man, you must be sleeping! It is ghastly--even the thought of it!"

Surprised out of himself, Scotty looked up. The intensity of the appeal was a thing to put life into a figure of clay. For an instant he felt the stimulant, felt his blood quicken at the suggestion of action; then his impotence returned.

"I have tried, Ben," he explained weakly, "but I can do nothing. If I attempted to interfere it would only make matters worse. Florence is as completely out of my control as--" he paused for a simile--"as the sunshine. I missed my opportunity with her when she was young. She has always had her own way, and she will have it now. It is the same as when she decided to come to town. She controls me, not I her."

Blair settled back in his chair. The mask of impa.s.sivity dropped back over his face, not again to lift. He was again in command of himself.

"You expect to do nothing more, then?" he asked finally.

Scotty did not look up. "No," he responded. "I can do nothing more. She will have to find out her mistake for herself."

Ben regarded the older man steadily. It would have been difficult to express that look in words.

"You'd be willing to help, would you," he suggested, "if you saw a way?"

The Englishman's eyes lifted. Even the incredible took on an air of possibility in the hands of this strong-willed ranchman.

"Yes," he repeated. "I will gladly do anything I can."

For half a minute Ben Blair did not speak. Not a nerve twitched or a muscle stirred in his long body; then he stood up, the broad sinewy shoulders squared, the masterful chin lifted.

"Very well," he said. "Call a carriage, and be ready to leave town in half an hour."

Scotty blinked helplessly. The necessity of sudden action always threw him into confusion. His mind needed not minutes but days to adjust itself to the unpremeditated.

"Why?" he queried. "What do you intend doing?"

But Ben did not stop to explain. Already he was at the door of the vestibule. "Don't ask me now. Do as I say, and you'll see!" And he stepped inside.

Within the entrance, he paused for a moment. He had never been in any room of the house except the library adjoining; and after a few seconds, walking over, he tapped twice on the door.

There was no answer, and he stepped inside. The place was empty, but, listening from the dining-room on the left he heard the low intermittent murmur of voices in conversation and the occasional click of china.

Sliding doors connected the rooms, and again for an instant he hesitated. Then, pulling them apart, he stood fairly in the aperture.

As he had expected, Florence and her mother were at breakfast. The doors had slid noiselessly, and for an instant neither observed him. Florence was nearest, half-facing him, and she was the first to glance up. As she did so, the coffee-cup in her hand shook spasmodically and a great brown blotch spread over the white tablecloth. Simultaneously her eyes widened, her cheeks blanched, and she stared as at a ghost. Her mother, too, turned at the spectacle, and her color shifted to an ashen gray.

For some seconds not one of the three spoke or stirred. It was Mrs.

Baker who first arose and advanced toward the intruder, as threateningly as it was possible for her to do.

"Who, if I might ask, invited you to come this way?" she challenged.

Ben took one step inside the room and folded his arms.

"I came without being asked," he explained evenly.

Mollie's weak oval face stiffened. She felt instinctively that her chiefest desires were in supreme menace. But one defense suggested itself--to be rid of the intruder at once.

"I trust, then, you are enough of a gentleman to return the way you came," she said icily.

Ben did not even glance at her. He was looking at the dainty little figure still motionless at the table.