“Yes, I’ll stay,” she conceded, moved by her anxiety.

“Every day?”

“We’ll see.”

“All right,” he laughed weakly.  “If you don’t come, I’ll take a pasear and go look for you.”  She helped him to his feet and they stood for a moment facing each other.

“You must put your hand on my shoulder and lean hard on me,” she told him.

But when she saw the utter weakness of him, her arm slipped round his waist and steadied him.

“Now then.  Not too fast,” she ordered gently.

They went back very slowly, his weight leaning on her more at every step.  When they reached his room, Keller sank down on the bed, utterly exhausted.  Phyllis ran for a cordial and put it to his lips.  It was some time before he could even speak.

“Thank you.  I ain’t right husky yet,” he admitted.

“You mustn’t ever do such a thing again,” she charged him.

“Not ever?”

“Not till the doctor says you’re strong enough to move.”

“I won’t—­if you’ll come and see me every day,” he answered irrepressibly.

So every afternoon she brought a book or her sewing, and sat by him, letting Phil storm about it as much as he liked.  These were happy hours.  Neither spoke of love, but the air was electrically full of it.  They laughed together a good deal at remarks not intrinsically humorous, and again there were conversational gaps so highly charged that she would rush at them as a reckless hunter takes a fence.

As he got better, he would be propped up in bed, and Aunt Becky would bring in tea for them both.  If there had been any corner of his heart unwon it would have surrendered then.  For to a bachelor the acme of bliss is to sit opposite a girl of whom he is very fond, and to see her buttering his bread and pouring his tea with that air of domesticity that visualizes the intimacy of which he has dreamed.  Keller had played a lone hand all his turbulent life, and this was like a glimpse of Heaven let down to earth for his especial benefit.

It was on such an occasion that Jim Yeager dropped in on them upon his return from Noches.  He let his eyes travel humorously over the room before he spoke.

“Why for don’t I ever have the luck to be shot up?” he drawled.

“Oh, you Jim!” Keller called a greeting from the bed.  Phyllis came forward, and, with a heightened color, shook hands with him.

“You’ll sit down with us and have some tea, Jim,” she told him.

“Me?  I’m no society Willie.  Don’t know the game at all, Phyl.  Besides, I’m carrying half of Arizona on my clothes.  It’s some dusty down in the Malpais.”

Nevertheless he sat down, and, over the biscuits and jam, told the meagre story of what he had found out.

The finding of the stocking-footed roan near Noches so soon after the robbery disposed of Healy’s lie, though it did not prove that Keller had not been riding it at the time of the holdup.  As for Healy, Yeager confessed he saw no way of implicating him.  His alibi was just as good as that of any of them.