“Where is the other—­woman?” she gasped.

“There never was any other.”

“You said—­”

“I said I loved my ideal.  I did not know she existed—­until I saw you.”

“Then—­then we were searching for—­”

“A vision.  But it was your face that haunted me. . . .  And I am not worth it, as you say.  And I know it, . . . for you have opened my eyes.”

He drew bridle, forcing a laugh.  “I cut a sorry figure in your life; be patient; I am going out of it now.”  And he swung his horse.  At the same moment she did the same, making a demi-tour and meeting him halfway, confronting him.

“Do you—­you mean to ride out of my life without a word?” she asked unsteadily.

“Good-by.”  He offered his hand, stirring his horse forward; she leaned lightly over and laid both hands in his.  Then, her face surging in color, she lifted her beautiful dark eyes to his as the horses approached, nearer, nearer, until, as they passed, flank brushing flank, her eyes fell, then closed as she swayed toward him, and clung, her young lips crushed to his.

There was nobody to witness it except the birds and squirrels—­nobody but a distant mounted policeman, who almost fainted away in his saddle.

Oh, it was awful, awful!  Apparently she had been kissed speechless, for she said nothing.  The man fool did all the talking, incoherently enough, but evidently satisfactory to her, judging from the way she looked at him, and blushed and blushed, and touched her eyes with a bit of cambric at intervals.

All the policeman heard as they passed him was; “I’m going to give you this horse, and Kerns is to give us our silver; and what do you think, my darling?”

“W-what?”

But they had already passed out of earshot; and in a few moments the shady, sun-flecked bridle path was deserted again save for the birds and squirrels, and a single mounted policeman, rigid, wild eyed, twisting his mustache and breathing hard.

CHAPTER VII

The news of Gatewood’s fate filled Kerns with a pleasure bordering upon melancholy.  It was his work; he had done it; it was good for Gatewood too—­time for him to stop his irresponsible cruise through life, lower sail, heave to, set his signals, and turn over matters to this charming pilot.

And now they would come into port together and anchor somewhere east of Fifth Avenue—­which, Kerns reflected, was far more proper a place for Gatewood than somewhere east of Suez, where young men so often sail.

And yet, and yet there was something melancholy in the pleasure he experienced.  Gatewood was practically lost to him.  He knew what might be expected from engaged men and newly married men.  Gatewood’s club life was ended—­for a while; and there was no other man with whom he cared to embark for those brightly lighted harbors twinkling east of Suez across the metropolitan wastes.