“I should be glad to,” said Daniels, brightening, “but it’s possible those missing pages were lost on the way.”

“Well, I’d find out,” persisted Banks.  “And there’s other stories I got wind of when I was in Washington, D.C., and Seattle, too, last time I was down, that ought to be trailed.  Maybe it’s just politics, but I know for a fact they ain’t so.”

The irony had gone out of Annabel’s face.  She had seen Hollis Tisdale but once, yet his coming and going had marked the red-letter day of her life.  Her heart championed Banks’ fight for him.  She turned her dark eyes from him to Daniels.

“It’s too bad you tried to tell Hollis Tisdale’s story for him,” she said.  “Even if the magazine had got it all straight, it wouldn’t have been the same as getting it first hand.  It’s like listening to one of those fine singers in a phonograph; you can get the tune and some of the words, and maybe the voice pretty fair, but you miss the man.”

With this she rose.  “We are ready to go out to the Orchards, Mr. Bailey.  Mr. Banks and I are going to change places with the bride and groom.”  Then from her silk bag, she brought forth a bunch of keys which she gave to Geraldine.  “Nukui is going to stay to clear away,” she explained, “and bring our car home.  And when you have finished making your plans, and want to go down to see the newspaper office, he will show you a nice short cut through the park.”

So again the mayor’s chocolate six-passenger car threaded the park and emerged this time on a straight, broad thoroughfare through Hesperides Vale.  “This,” said Bailey, turning from the town, “is the Alameda.  They motor from Wenatchee and beyond to try it.  It’s a pretty good road, but in a year or two, when these shade trees come into full leaf, it will be something to show.”

There were tufts on most of them now and on the young fruit trees that ran in geometrical designs on either side, covering the levels that last year had been overgrown with sage.  As these infant orchards dropped behind and the Wenatchee range loomed near, Cerberus detached from the other peaks; but it was no longer a tawny monster on guard; its contour was broken by many terraces, luxuriant with alfalfa and planted with trees.

“Why,” exclaimed Mrs. Weatherbee, “there is the gap.  Then, this must be the mountain—­it reminded me once of a terrible, crouching, wild beast—­ but it has changed.”

“Yes, ma’am,” responded Banks, “she’s looking tamer now.  The peaches have taken right hold, and those fillers of strawberries are hurrying on the green.  But you give ’em three years or maybe four, and take ’em in blossom time,—­my, you won’t know this old mountain then.”

A drive, cross-cutting the bold front, led to the level beneath the summit, where rose the white walls and green gables of Annabel’s home, but they rounded the mountain into the smaller vale.  “This,” said the mayor, with culminating pride, “is Weatherbee Orchards.  It shows what money, in the right hands, can do.”