“Several minutes,” and she turned to face him.  “I waited until the carriage passed before coming onto the bridge.  I took the foot-path from the hotel.”

“Oh, I see—­from the other way.  I was waiting in the trail below.  You saw who was in the carriage?”

“Beaton—­yes,” quietly.  “He expects some friends, and wishes me to meet them—­Eastern people, you know.”

Her indifference ruffled his temper, aroused his suspicion of her purpose.

“You sent for me; there is some explanation, no doubt?”

The lady smiled, lifting her eyes to his face.

“There is,” she answered.  “A perfectly satisfactory one, I believe; but this place is too prominent, as I have a rather long story to tell.  Beaton and his friends will be returning soon.”

“There is a rock seat below, just beyond the clump of willows, quite out of sight from the road,” he suggested.  “Perhaps you would go with me there?”

“What trail is that?”

“It leads to mines up the canon, my own included, but is not greatly travelled; the main trail is farther east.”

She walked to the edge of the bridge, and permitted him to assist her down the steep bank.  There was something of reserve about her manner, which prevented Westcott from feeling altogether at ease.  In his own mind he began once more to question her purpose, to doubt the sincerity of her intentions.  She appeared different from the frankly outspoken girl of the night before.  Neither broke the silence between them until they reached the flat boulder and had found seats in the shelter of overhanging trees.  She sat a moment, her eyes on the water, her cheeks shadowed by the wide brim of her hat, and Westcott noted the almost perfect contour of her face silhouetted against the green leaves.  She turned toward him questioningly.

“I was very rude,” she said, “but you will forgive me when I explain the cause.  I had to act as I did or else lose my hold entirely on that man—­you understand?”

“I do not need to understand,” he answered gallantly.  “It is enough that you say so.”

“No, it is not enough.  I value your friendship, Mr. Westcott, and I need your advice.  I find myself confronting a very complicated case under unfamiliar conditions.  I hardly know what to do.”

“You may feel confidence in me.”

“Oh, I do; indeed, you cannot realise how thoroughly I trust you,” and impulsively she touched his hand with her own.  “That is why I wrote you to meet me here—­so I could tell you the whole story.”

He waited, his eyes on her face.

“I received my letter this morning—­the letter I told you I expected, containing my instructions.  They—­they relate to this man Ned Beaton and the woman he expects on this train.”

“Your instructions?” he echoed doubtfully.  “You mean you have been sent after these people on some criminal matter?  You are a detective?”