“Then this is the ideal spot for you,” Miss Van Arsdale answered her.  “I’m going to ride over to town.”

“In this gale?” asked the surprised girl.

“Oh, I’m weather-proof.  Tell Pedro not to wait luncheon for me.  And keep an eye on him if you want anything fit to eat.  He’s the worst cook west of the plains.  You’ll find books, and the piano to amuse you when you get up.”

She rode away, straight and supple in the saddle, and Io went back to sleep again.  Halfway to her destination, Miss Van Arsdale’s woods-trained ear caught the sound of another horse’s hooves, taking a short cut across a bend in the trail.  To her halloo, Banneker’s clear voice responded.  She waited and presently he rode up to her.

“Come back with me,” she invited after acknowledging his greeting.

“I was going over to see Miss Welland.”

“Wait until to-morrow.  She is resting.”

A shade of disappointment crossed his face.  “All right,” he agreed.  “I wanted to tell her that her messages got off all right.”

“I’ll tell her when I go back.”

“That’ll be just as well,” he answered reluctantly.  “How is she feeling?”

“Exhausted.  She’s been under severe strain.”

“Oughtn’t she to have a doctor?  I could ride—­”

“She won’t listen to it.  And I think her head is all right now.  But she ought to have complete rest for several days.”

“Well, I’m likely to be busy enough,” he said simply.  “The schedule is all shot to pieces, and, unless this rain lets up, we’ll have more track out.  What do you think of it?”

Miss Van Arsdale looked up through the thrashing pines to the rush of the gray-black clouds.  “I think we’re in for a siege of it,” was her pronouncement.

They rode along single file in the narrow trail until they emerged into the open.  Then Banneker’s horse moved forward, neck and neck with the other.  Miss Van Arsdale reined down her uneasy roan.

“Ban.”

“Yes?”

“Have you ever seen anything like her before?”

“Only on the stage.”

She smiled.  “What do you think of her?”

“I hardly know how to express it,” he answered frankly, though hesitantly.  “She makes me think of all the poetry I’ve ever read.”

“That’s dangerous.  Ban, have you any idea what kind of a girl she is?”

“What kind?” he repeated.  He looked startled.

“Of course you haven’t.  How should you?  I’m going to tell you.”

“Do you know her, Miss Camilla?”

“As well as if she were my own sister.  That is, I know her type.  It’s common enough.”

“It can’t be,” he protested eagerly.

“Oh, yes!  The type is.  She is an exquisite specimen of it; that’s all.  Listen, Ban.  Io Welland is the petted and clever and willful daughter of a rich man; a very rich man he would be reckoned out here.  She lives in a world as remote from this as the moon.”