To be sure, it was nothing more than might have been expected of a man whose undergraduate work in English had aroused the reluctant wonder of more than one instructor. Nevertheless, the fact that he pulled stroke on the 'varsity crew had somewhat blinded other contemporaries to his more scholarly attainments. Nor had anyone thought it probable, because of his father's wealth, that Blair, in any event, would feel called upon to do much more than make a frolic of life. No one, indeed, had been more taken aback than had his father to find him, a year after graduation, drudging over the a.s.sistant editor's desk of a struggling magazine the payroll of which, to put it mildly, offered no financial inducements.

"It's good practice for me, though,--quickest way to learn," was all he vouchsafed when the older man remonstrated.

Yet, had that same father, shrewd capitalist that he was, but taken the trouble to reason back from premises evident enough, he might have been the first to realize that this tall son of his, with the keen gray eyes and a face the strength of which was but increased by the high cheek bones and squarely molded chin, was scarcely the type of man to sit idly by enjoying the fruits of another's labor.

And now, after two years more of grinding apprenticeship, he had in mind something much bigger than the slender volume of verse,--an adventure into authorship more suited to his metal,--a story for which an intense personal sympathy would furnish fitting atmosphere, with the final spur to his ambition a letter from the Atlantic even at the moment stowed safely away in his pocket.

Some two hours later, after an unexpectedly excellent dinner in the luxurious dining room, he sauntered over to the hotel desk. There was no more than the faintest probability that a clerk of the St. Catherine would be able to tell him how to reach a secret cavern bower above the Bay of Moons; still, he had to enter an opening wedge somewhere. The one man on duty was for the moment occupied with another guest, and Blair, lighting his after-dinner cigar, prepared with leisurely patience to await his turn.

The guest happened to be a young woman, rather pretty, he casually decided, although her greatest claim to beauty lay more, perhaps, in the swift changes in expression of which her face was capable, than in any actual regularity of line. For lack of anything better to do, Blair watched idly her encounter with the clerk. There appeared to be some kind of misunderstanding.

"Awfully sorry it's happened that way, Miss Hastings," the man behind the desk was saying. He lifted with genuine reluctance the key she had just laid down. "We'd be mighty sorry to interfere with your work, but those small rooms always do go first. You know that yourself."

"I hadn't heard about it, though. I didn't know they were all gone." Her voice quivered with disappointment.

Blair, whose vocation taught him a certain technical sympathy, shot a swift glance at her. She couldn't be more than twenty-two or thereabouts, he decided less casually, and went on to observe her still further. She wore a shabby, broad-brimmed hat much faded as if from constant exposure to the sun, but the shadows in the coil of hair beneath were warmly golden.

"Couldn't you find a room down in the village somewhere,--at Mrs.

Merrill's perhaps?" suggested the clerk.

"But Mrs. Merrill isn't here this spring." In spite of its quiver the voice was very sweet.

"No," she started to turn away, "I'll have to put it off again, I suppose. I've looked everywhere."

She took a step or two, hesitated, then returned to the desk.

"You're positive there isn't a single one of the small rooms left?" she pleaded. "I wouldn't care how far back it was,--anything would do. You can't think how I hate to give up. I had so hoped to finish it this time!"

The man shook his head.

"No, we're absolutely full just now. Later on there might be something,--after the season is over."

"But that will be after school begins," answered the girl bitterly. "I can't work at all then!" and catching up a bag fully as shabby as the hat, she hurried away.

"Who is she?" asked Blair abruptly, overlooking for the moment his original purpose in seeking the man.

"School-teacher from Pasadena," replied the clerk briefly. "Teaches art in some private school over there, I believe." He eyed Blair amusedly.

"Think you've met her before somewhere?"

Blair allowed his annoyance to show. "No, never laid eyes on her till just now. But I couldn't help feeling a bit sorry for her," he persisted. "She seemed so sort of cut up. What's the trouble?"

"I'm sorry for her myself," declared the man on the other side as he hung the returned key on its board. "This is the third time that poor little woman's had to leave before she could finish what she came for on account of the expense. But what can we do?" He shrugged his shoulders.

"The St. Catherine isn't exactly a Y. W. C. A."

"What is it she's trying to do?"

Amus.e.m.e.nt deepened in the man's eyes.

"She's supposed to be painting Indians."

"Indians!" To the amazement of the other man Blair suddenly leaned forward, his eyes agleam with interest.

"But I didn't know there were any around here."

"There aren't."

"Then how--?"

"Makes 'em up out of her head, I guess. I never heard that she had even a model."

"But--but what I want to know is why she comes here at all?" The situation seemed to Blair to offer possibilities, yet he was thoroughly puzzled. "I met a fellow on the train who does that sort of thing, but he always goes to the desert to paint,--at least he said he did."

"Yes, they do mostly. Probably he meant Taos,--whole nest of artists at Taos."

"Well, but why in thunder then--?"

The clerk smiled skeptically.

"Why, you see, it's something like this. Miss Hastings' bent on being an ill.u.s.trator, pays better than teaching, I suppose, or--well, at any rate, that's what she's aiming for,--and she has an idea that if she can only get a series of pictures,--several of them on the same subject, you understand,--accepted by one of those Eastern magazines, she can soon work in with some big publisher and get an order. She told us all about it one night last winter when she was over."

"But in heaven's name, why Indians?" persisted Blair.

"Because she thinks she's found some good material here. She told me about that, too. Seems there's an old legend connected with Catalina, about an Indian princess and a cavern. The princess died of a broken heart or something of the sort, I believe she said. I never heard the particulars myself. n.o.body else, either, seems to know anything about it. But Miss Hastings says there's quite a story, and she's got it all down pat from A to Z. She's using it for her series."

A porter brought up some newcomers and Blair stepped aside. But the moment his man was at leisure again he cornered him at once. An idea had come to him, an idea almost dazzling in its possibilities.

"You say she hasn't finished her series yet?"

"Beg pardon? Oh, the teacher?" The man shook his head. "Evidently not from what she said just now. She never stays long enough really to put it over. Every few months she bobs up over a week-end, but that doesn't give her time even to visit some of the places she's after. She never seems to get much more than started before she has to go home again."

For a moment Blair smoked in silence. Then:

"Look here," he cut in abruptly, "You split my suite and give her one of my rooms."

The man's eyebrows rose in surprise.

"Her? What do you mean?"

Blair made an impatient gesture.

"Why, this Miss--the teacher, you know. Didn't you just say you hadn't any room for her? Well, I've got three, you know."

"Yes, but that's altogether a different proposition. You made your reservation weeks ago."

"But you could still give her one of them, couldn't you?"

Clerks in large hotels listen with patience to a vast number of strange proposals, but at this from Blair, the man opposite eyed him in unflattering amazement.