“My friend,” she said, “I am Miss Claiborne.  You may know my father’s house down in the valley.  We have been coming here as far back as I can remember.”

The mountaineer listened to her gravely, and at her last words he unconsciously nodded his head.  Shirley, seeing that he was interested, seized her advantage.

“I have no reason for misleading you.  This gentleman is not a revenue man.  He probably never heard of a—­still, do you call it?—­in his life—­” and she smiled upon him sweetly.  “But if you will let him go I promise to satisfy you entirely in the matter.”

Chauvenet started to speak, but Shirley arrested him with a gesture, and spoke again to the mountaineer in her most engaging tone: 

“We are both mountaineers, you and I, and we don’t want any of our people to be carried off to jail.  Isn’t that so?  Now let this gentleman ride away, and I shall stay here until I have quite assured you that you are mistaken about him.”

She signaled Chauvenet to mount, holding the mystified and reluctant mountaineer with her eyes.  Her heart was thumping fast and her hand shook a little as she tightened her grasp on the rein.  She addressed Chauvenet in English as a mark of good faith to their captor.

“Ride on, Monsieur; do not wait for me.”

“But it is growing dark—­I can not leave you alone, Mademoiselle.  You have rendered me a great service, when it is I who should have extricated you—­”

“Pray do not mention it!  It is a mere chance that I am able to help.  I shall be perfectly safe with this gentleman.”

The mountaineer took off his hat.

“Thank ye, Miss,” he said; and then to Chauvenet:  “Get out!”

“Don’t trouble about me in the least, Monsieur Chauvenet,” and Shirley affirmed the last word with a nod as Chauvenet jumped into his saddle and rode off.  When the swift gallop of his horse had carried him out of sight and sound down the road, Shirley faced the mountaineer.

“What is your name?”

“Tom Selfridge.”

“Whom did you take that man to be, Mr. Selfridge?” asked Shirley, and in her eagerness she bent down above the mountaineer’s bared tangle of tow.

“The name you called him ain’t it.  It’s a queer name I never heerd tell on befo’—­it’s—­it’s like the a’my—­”

“Is it Armitage?” asked Shirley quickly.

“That’s it, Miss!  The postmaster over at Lamar told me to look out fer ’im.  He’s moved up hy’eh, and it ain’t fer no good.  The word’s out that a city man’s lookin’ for some_thing_ or some_body_ in these hills.  And the man’s stayin’—­”

“Where?”

“At the huntin’ club where folks don’t go no more.  I ain’t seen him, but th’ word’s passed.  He’s a city man and a stranger, and got a little fella’ that’s been a soldier into th’ army stayin’ with ’im.  I thought yo’ furriner was him, Miss, honest to God I did.”