“I swear to that.”  He settled his notebook again on his knee and lifted his pencil.  “Nothing sensational,” he added, “nothing annoying; now please give me your name.”

“Well, then, write Miss Armitage.”

“Miss Armitage.  Thank you.  Miss Armitage of?”

“San Francisco.”

“Of San Francisco; and visiting the Morgansteins, of course.  But going on now alone to meet the friends who are expecting you—­am I right?—­at North Yakima.”

There was a brief silence, and she moved a little in her chair.  “Where I am going now,” she said, and looked at him once more across the invisible barrier, “is another story.”

“I beg your pardon.”  Daniels laughed and, rising from his perch on the chair arm, put his notebook in his pocket.  “And I’m awfully grateful.  If ever I can be of service to you, I hope you’ll let me know.”  He started up the car, then paused to say over his shoulder:  “The light for photography was fine; the old man will double column every illustration.”

“Illustrations?” She started up in dismay.  “Oh, no.  Please—­I couldn’t endure—­”

But Jimmie Daniels, with the camera swinging to his quick step, hurried on to the vestibule.

She settled back in her seat, and for a moment her consternation grew; then the humor of the situation must have dawned on her, for suddenly the sparkles danced in her eyes.  Her glance met Tisdale’s briefly and, suppress it as he tried, his own smile broke at the corners of his mouth.  He rose and walked out again to the platform.

This was the rarest woman on earth.  She was able to appreciate a joke at her own expense.  Clearly she had finessed, then, in the instant she had been sure of the game, she had met and accepted defeat with a smile.  But he would like to discipline that fellow Daniels;—­here he frowned—­those films should be destroyed.  Still, the boy would hardly give them up peaceably and to take them otherwise would not spare her the publicity she so desired to avoid; such a scene must simply furnish fresh material, a new chapter to the story.  After all, not one newspaper cut in a hundred could be recognized.  It was certain she was in no need of a champion; he never had seen a woman so well equipped, so sure of herself and her weapons, and yet so altogether feminine.  If Foster had but known her.

Instantly, in sharp contrast to this delightful stranger, rose the woman of his imagination; the idle spendthrift who had cast her spell over level-headed Foster; who had wrecked David Weatherbee; and his face hardened.  A personal interview, he told himself presently, would be worse than useless.  There was no way to reach a woman like her; she was past appeal.  But he would take that tract of desert off her hands at her price, and perhaps, while the money lasted, she would let Foster alone.