For the first few miles the trail was so difficult that speed was out of the question; but later, in crossing a high-lying valley, the horses were pushed.  Beyond the valley there were more mountains, and half-way through this second range the trail plunged into a deep, cleft-like canyon with a brawling torrent for its pathfinder.  Once more Blount lost the sense of direction, and when the canyon trail came out upon broad uplands and became a country road with bordering ranches watered by irrigation canals, into which the mountain torrent was diverted, there were no recognizable landmarks to tell him whither his captors were leading him.

As he was able to determine by holding his watch, face up, to the moonlight, it was nearly midnight when the silent cavalcade of four turned aside from the main road into an avenue of spreading cottonwood trees.  At its head the avenue became a circular driveway; and fronting the driveway a stately house, with a massive Georgian facade and colonnaded portico, flung its shadow across the white gravel of the carriage approach.

There were lights in one wing of the house, and another appeared behind the fan-light in the entrance-hall when the leader of the three highbinders had tramped up the steps and touched the bell-push.  Blount had a fleeting glimpse of a black head with a fringe of snowy wool when the door was opened, but he did not hear what was said.  After the negro serving-man disappeared there was a little wait.  At the end of the interval the door was opened wide, and Blount had a gruff order to dismount.

What he saw when he stood on the door-mat beside his captor merely added mystery to mystery.  Just within the luxuriously furnished hall, where the light of the softly shaded hall lantern served to heighten the artistic effect of her red house-gown, stood a woman—­a lady, and evidently the mistress of the Georgian mansion.  She was small and dark, with brown eyes that were almost childlike in their winsomeness; a woman who might be twenty, or thirty, or any age between.  Beautiful she was not, Blount decided, comparing her instantly, as he did all women, with Patricia Anners; but—­He was not given time to add the qualifying phrase or to prepare himself for what was coming.

“What is it, Barto?” the little lady asked, turning to the man with the gun.

The reply was direct and straight to the purpose.

“Excuse me; but I jest wanted to ask if you know this here young feller.  He’s been allowin’ to me th’t he is—­”

“Of course,” she said quickly, and stepping forward she gave her hand and a welcome to the dazed one.  “Please come in; we have been expecting you.”  Then again to the man with the Winchester:  “Thank you so much, Barto, for showing the gentleman the way to Wartrace Hall.”

It was all done so quietly that Blount was still unconsciously holding the hand of welcoming while his late captors were riding away down the cottonwood-shaded avenue.  When he realized what he was doing he was as nearly embarrassed as a self-contained young lawyer could well be.  But his impromptu hostess quickly set him at ease.