“Do—­do you know a Mr. Ned Winston?”

He shook his head, the locks of red hair showing conspicuously under the wide hat-brim.

“I r-reckon not.  Leastwise, don’t s-s-sorter seem to r-recall no such n-name, Miss.  Was the g-gent a f-friend o’ your ’n?”

“Y-yes.  He is a mining engineer, and, I have been told, is under engagement at the ‘Little Yankee.’”

Brown’s eyes hardened, looking down into the upturned face, and his hands clinched in sudden awakening suspicion.

“You d-did, hey?” he questioned sullenly.  “Wh-who told you that r-rot?”

“Farnham.”

The man uttered an unrestrained oath, fully believing now that he was being led into a cunningly devised trap.  His mental operations were slow, but he was swift and tenacious enough in prejudice.  He stopped still, and the two stood silently facing each other, the same vague spectre of suspicion alive in the minds of both.

“Farnham,” the man muttered, for one instant thrown off his guard from surprise.  “How th-the hell d-d-did he g-git hold o’ that?”

“I don’t know; but is n’t it true?”

He turned her face around toward the light, not roughly, yet with an unconscious strength which she felt irresistible, and looked at her searchingly, his own eyes perceptibly softening.

“Y-you sure l-l-look all right, little g-girl,” he admitted, slowly, “but I ’ve h-heard th-th-that feller was hell with w-women.  I-I reckon you b-better go b-back to Farnham an’ find out.”

He paused, wiping his perspiring face with the back of his hand, his cheeks reddening painfully under her unfaltering gaze.  Finally he blurted out: 

“Say, w-who are you, anyhow?”

“Beth Norvell, an actress.”

“You kn-kn-know Farnham?”

She bent her head in regretful acknowledgment.

“An’ you kn-kn-know the senorita?”

“Yes, a very little.”

Stutter Brown wet his lips, shifting awkwardly.

“Well, y-you ’ll excuse me, M-Miss,” he stuttered in an excess of embarrassment, yet plunging straight ahead with manly determination to have it out.  “I-I ain’t much used t-t-to this sorter th-thing, an’ maybe I-I ain’t got no r-r-right ter be a-botherin’ you with m-my affairs, nohow.  But you s-see it’s th-this way.  I ’ve sorter t-took a big l-l-likin’ to that dancin’ girl.  Sh-she ’s a darn sight n-n-nearer my s-style than anything I ’ve been up a-against fer s-some time.  I-I don’t just kn-know how it h-h-happened, it was so blame s-sudden, b-but she ’s got her l-l-lasso ’bout me all r-right.  But Lord! sh-she ’s all fun an’ laugh; sh-sh-she don’t seem to take n-nothin’ serious like, an’ you c-can’t make much ou-ou-out o’ that kind; you n-never know just how to t-take ’em; leastwise, I don’t.  N-now, I ’m a plain s-s-sorter man, an’ I m-make bold ter ask ye a m-mighty plain sorter qu-question—­is that there M-M-Mercedes on the squar?”