While she was replying to his banter, Kurt came into the room. She felt a little feminine thrill of pleasure in his look of unspoken admiration.

"I left my guest, Mr. Hebler, down at the stables," continued Kingdon.

"Billy, run down and tell him it is nearly time for luncheon. I made a new acquaintance while I was away," he explained to Pen. "Bruce Hebler. I persuaded him to stop off on his way out to California."

Pen's eyes dilated slightly, and the color left her face, as she made some excuse for leaving the room. Kurt followed, intercepting her in the hallway.

"This Hebler is some one you have met before?" he asked, looking at her keenly.

"Yes; did I show it so plainly? I don't want to see him, or let him know I am here."

"You are afraid of him?"

"Y-e-s."

"He has some power over you--the power to take you away?"

"Yes; a power prior to yours."

"A legal one?"

"Yes."

"You can keep to your room," he said rea.s.suringly. "That is, for the afternoon. Westcott has invited Mr. Kingdon and this man to dinner and for cards afterward. You can easily stay away from the breakfast room in the morning. I think he is going to leave in a day or so. I'll think up some excuse for your not appearing."

"Oh!" she said whimsically. "You will--lie for me?"

He flushed.

"I want Mrs. Kingdon to be your custodian--not this man."

"So do I," she said. "But I forget I am in custody up here."

"I am wondering," he said in a troubled tone, "how we can prevent the children from speaking of you before this man? And Kingdon, too, is sure to mention your name."

"Oh, that will do no harm. He won't know whom they mean. He doesn't know me by my own name. I told you I had a great many convenient aliases.

Remember?"

"Yes," he replied shortly. "I remember."

She went to her room, and presently Marta came in with her luncheon, some books and a message of sympathy from Kingdon. In spite of these distractions, time dragged and it was with a sigh of relief that she saw Kingdon and his guest motoring toward Westcott's.

"Poor old Hebby! Just as hawk-nosed and lynx-eyed as ever. The last place he'd think of looking for me would be behind these curtains. It's worth being a prisoner for an afternoon to know I have eluded him once more."

When she came down to dinner, Kurt was again visibly impressed by her appearance. She wore another of her recently acquired gowns, a black one of sheer filmy material. Her hair, rippling back from her brows, was coiled low. Her face was pale and yet young and flowerlike. There was a new touch of wistfulness about her--a charm of repose, almost of dignity.

Later, when the children had gone upstairs, she went into the dimly lighted sitting-room and sat down at the piano, touching softly and lightly the notes of a minor melody, an erratic little air rising and falling in a succession of harmonies.

"Pen!"

She turned exquisite eyes to Kurt's ardent gaze.

"I like you in this dress. I didn't know dress could so alter a person."

There was the tone of unrepressed admiration in his voice.

"Hebby is right," she thought with a fleeting smile. "He said there was something very effective about black to men--especially to men who know nothing about clothes."

"I must ask you something," he continued, speaking in troubled tone. "This man Hebler--does he know--"

She stopped playing.

"He knows me as you know me, as the thief, and he knows--something else about me."

Her fingers again found their way to the keys.

Reluctantly he found himself succ.u.mbing to the witchery of her plaintive tone and her quivering lips. Then he rallied and said relentlessly.

"Something worse?"

"Is there anything worse than stealing?" she asked artlessly. "His acquaintance with me is not exactly of a personal nature. He admits but one of my shortcomings--that he never knows where to find me--literally.

He'd think so more than ever if he could see me now."

"Does he love you?"

She stopped playing, rose from the piano bench and with an odd little laugh, crossed the room to the window seat. He followed.

"Hebby love me? Well, no! There have been times when I think he positively hated me. But I wish he hadn't come. He brings up--unpleasant memories."

"Then let's talk of something pleasant--very pleasant. About Marta, Jo's Marta. I met them together yesterday. I had my answer to the question I asked you."

"They are very happy," she said wistfully. "I am so glad."

"Pen, why did you make me think, that first day I met you, that it was you Jo met and loved in Chicago?"

"Did I make you think so? You a.s.sumed I was the one and I--well, I wouldn't have presumed to dispute the a.s.sertion of anyone in a sheriff line. It's safer not."

"You asked me not to be hard on little Marta. Who could be? Not even the man you seem to think me to be. I'll do all in my power to help them to build a little home in the hills. And she does love him."

"Yes," she said softly. "She does."

He looked at her with a little ache in his throat. The moonlight was full on her partly averted face; her profile, clear-cut, delicate, was like a medallion.

"Pen--could you love me?"

The words seemed wrung from him in spite of an apparent determination not to utter them.

She turned and looked straight into his eyes.

"That isn't what you should ask me, unless, you--"