The temptation to watch her was very great, and Tisdale squared his shoulders resolutely and swung his chair more towards his own window, which did not afford a view of the lake.  He wanted to see this new railroad route through the Cascades.  This Pass of Snoqualmie had always been his choice of a transcontinental line.  And he was approaching new territory; he never had pushed down the eastern side from the divide.  He had chosen this roundabout way purposely, with thirty miles of horseback at the end, when the Great Northern would have put him directly into the Wenatchee Valley and within a few miles of that tract of Weatherbee’s he was going to see.

There were few travelers in the observation car, and for a while nothing broke the silence but the clamp and rush of the wheels on the down-grade, then the man with a camera entered and came down the aisle as far as the new passenger’s chair.  “I hope you’ll excuse me,” he said, “I’m Daniels, representing the Seattle Press, and I thought you would like to see this story go in straight.”

Tisdale swung his chair a little towards the open rear door, so that he was able to watch without seeming to see the progress of the comedy.  He was quick enough to catch the sweeping look she gave the intruder, aloof yet fearless, as though she saw him across an invisible barrier.  “You mean you are a reporter,” she asked quietly, “and are writing an account of the accident for your newspaper?”

“Yes.”  Daniels dropped his cap into the next chair and seated himself airily on the arm.  The camera swung by a carrying strap from his shoulder, and he opened a notebook, which he supported on his knee while he felt in his pocket for a pencil.  “Of course I recognized young Morganstein; everybody knows him and that chocolate car; he’s been run in so often for speeding about town.  And I suppose he was touring through Snoqualmie Pass to the races at North Yakima fair.  There should be some horses there worth going to see.”

“We meant to spend a day or two at the fair,” she admitted, “but we expected to motor on, exploring a little in the neighborhood.”

“I see.  Up the valley to have a look at the big irrigation dam the Government is putting in and maybe on to see the great Tieton bore.  That would have been a fine trip; sorry you missed it.”  Daniels paused to place several dots and hooks on his page.  “I recognized Miss Morganstein, too,” he went on, “though she was too busy to notice me.  I met her when I was taking my course in journalism at the State University; danced with her at the Junior Prom.  And the other lady, whose wrist was sprained, must have been her sister, Mrs. Feversham.  I was detailed to interview the new Alaska delegate when he passed through Seattle, and I understood his wife was to join him later.  She was stopping over for a visit, and the society editor called my attention to a mighty good picture of her in last Sunday’s issue.  Do you know?—­” he paused, looking into the girl’s face with a curious scrutiny, “there was another fine reproduction on that page that you might have posed for.  The lady served tea or punch or did something at the same affair.  But I can’t remember her name—­I’ve tried ever since we left that station—­though seems to me it was a married one.”