"Certainly; two of them," she replied a.s.suredly.

"That's all right. So long as there are two, it's nothing serious. Safety in numbers, remember."

After dinner they motored out to the field where the exhibition was to be given. A coatless, tanned, weather-beaten crowd had already gathered.

Pen stood apart from the spectators, watching Larry whirl, turn turtle, and perform all the aviation agonies so fascinating to the untutored. When he shut off the engine and swung down, skimming the ground for a way and stopping gently, she was in waiting nearby.

"I loathe this kind of exhibition work!" he declared. "It's silly stuff, but it's what the public wants. Sure you don't want to try a little straight flight?" he tempted.

"N--o, Larry. Vice versa for mine, as the Irishman said."

"All right. Here, Meder!" he said to the mechanic, who had come up. "Take care of the flier. I'll see you later at the hotel."

"It was wonderful, Larry," said Pen as they were motoring to town. "I seem to see you from such a new angle now. I have always thought of you as a lovable, happy-go-lucky boy, but when I saw you take the air, I knew you had come to be something far different. You have the hawk-sense of balance, the sixth sense--the sense woman was supposed to have a monopoly of till the day of aeroplanes arrived. You had nerve to go up there and yet you were not nervous."

"A fellow has to be without nerve and yet nervy," explained Larry. "If he loses his sense of equilibrium up there, it's all off; yet he has to be always ready to take a chance and to find one."

"And, Larry--when you fly to the colors--"

"To the tricolors," he interrupted.

"It will bring out the biggest and bravest and best there is in you, Larry. I am so glad! Don't go out of my life again. Let me hear from you when you get over."

"I was sore, Pen, when you handed me such a lecture, though it was coming to me all right. But it stuck, and the time came when I was grateful. When I found I could make good, I couldn't find you. I wrote every one of the crowd or went to see them, but you had mysteriously disappeared. Hebby said you must have been run in."

"Was; but luck was with me again. I will give you an address that will always reach me."

"I shall never go up, Pen, without thinking of you and to-day. But you have told me very little of yourself. Are you still--"

"The thief? Not at present. I am enjoying an interlude; but there are times when virtue palls, but I mean to keep out of Hebler's clutches.

Larry, I believe I will let you out here--on the edge of the town--the main street. I have a long ride before me. It's lonesome to say good-bye."

"I expect to be in two or three days yet--waiting for some mail."

"I wish I might see you again, Larry, but I don't know how I can manage it. If anyone knew I were in town to-day, it might lead to--developments.

Send me your address at the port you are to sail from, and I'll have things there for you."

"Good-bye, Pen. You're the best little scout I ever knew."

He kissed her and got out of the car. There were tears in her eyes as she motored on up through the hills land. The air grew cold and brisk; she felt the sense of silence and strength. She recalled her first ride up these hills in the early morning, and that turned her thoughts to Kurt.

She wondered if he were of the stuff that bird men are made of. How much more sphinx-like he was, and how different from the keen, alert, business-like flier Larry had shown himself to be! They were types as remote as the eagle and the lark. Larry, of course, was the lark. She had a feeling of loneliness in her knowledge of his going so far away. He knew more about her than any one else. She never had to play a part with him.

Soon, all too soon, she found herself at the ranch. Dinner was over and the children had gone upstairs with Mrs. Merlin.

Kurt returned a few moments later and came into the library where she sat alone by the open fire, pensive and distrait, still thinking of Larry and of his going into service.

He looked at her oddly. This was not the pert, saucy, little girl he had taken from Bender, nor the little playmate of the children, nor yet the quiet, domestic woman who had served him that night in the kitchen.

There was an indefinable charm about her that defied definition or a.n.a.lysis--a rapt, exquisite look that lifted her up--up to his primitive ideal.

"Pen!"

He started toward her, seemed to remember, hesitated and then asked lamely:

"What have you been doing all day?"

Her former little air of raillery crept back momentarily at his change of tone.

"A narrow escape," she thought, as she said aloud, reckless of consequences: "I motored into town by myself; bought some new clothes; had dinner with an old friend; saw an aeroplane go up and--"

He smiled in a bored way and asked her some irrelevant question.

"The easiest way to deceive, as Hebby always said, is to tell the truth,"

she thought.

"Pen!" He spoke with a return of his first manner. "I--"

"I am very tired," she quickly interrupted, "I think I will say good-night, now."

"Don't go yet," he urged, "I--"

"I want to be alone," she replied wearily.

"There is something I want to say to you. Jo Gary comes to-morrow!"

"Yes," she answered indifferently. "Mr. Westcott found another manager, did he?"

"You knew Jo was at Westcott's?" he gasped.

"Certainly. I've seen Jo a number of times."

"When, where?" he demanded in displeased tone.

"Let me think. Why, he came back from Westcott's the day after my arrival.

Their manager postponed departure. So Jo was here for the dance, and on field day--and--I think he went back to Westcott's the day you came back.

Wasn't it all right to see him?" she asked guilelessly. "Mrs. Kingdon didn't object."

"What other times did you see him?"

"I heard him whistle one night, and I slid down the big tree near my window. Then he came one morning to bring me flowers. I am glad he is coming for keeps. He livens things up, Jo does."

"Why did neither you nor he speak of your having met?"

"I begged him not to, because I felt that you wouldn't approve."

An intense silence followed.

"Do you think," he asked bitterly, "that you are fair to Jo--"