But the visitor’s hand restrained him.

“Don’t, please.  She knows I am here.  I saw her a bit ago.  Let her do as she wishes.”  He drew himself up in the cane rocker.  “You asked me a question.  As far as I know I shall ranch it always.  It suits me, and it’s the thing I can do best.  Besides, I like being with live things.  The only trouble I have,” he smiled frankly, “is in selling stock after I raise them.  I want to keep them as long as they live, and put them in greener pastures when they get old.  It’s the off season, but I brought a couple of car-loads along with me to Chicago, to the stock-yards.  I’ll never do it again.  It has to be done, I know; people have to be fed; but I’ve watched those steers grow from calves.”

Scotty searched his brain for something relevant and impersonal, but nothing suggested itself.  “Ben Blair,” he ventured, “I like you.”

“Thank you,” said Ben.

They were silent for a long time.  Pedestrians, singly and in pairs, sauntered past on the walk.  Vehicle after vehicle scurried by in the street.  At last a team of brown thoroughbreds, with one man driving, drew up in front of the house.  The man alighted, tied the horses to the stone hitching-post, and came up the walk.  Simultaneously Ben saw the curtains at the library window sway as though in a sudden breeze.

“Splendid horses, those,” he commented.

“Yes,” answered Scotty, wishing he were somewhere else just then.  “Yes,” he repeated, absently.

“Good-evening, Mr. Baker!” said the smiling driver of the thoroughbreds.

“Good-evening,” echoed Scotty.  Then, with a gesture, he indicated the passive Benjamin.  “My friend Mr. Blair, Mr. Sidwell.”

Sidwell mounted the steps.  Ben arose.  The library curtains trembled again.  The two men looked each other fairly in the eyes and then shook hands.

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Blair,” said Sidwell.

“Thank you,” responded Ben, evenly.

Down in the depths of his consciousness, Scotty was glad this frontier youth had seen fit to come to town.  Taking off his big glasses he polished them industriously.

“Won’t you sit down?” he invited the new-comer.

Sidwell moved toward the door.  “No, thank you.  With your permission I’ll go inside.  I presume Miss Baker—­”

But the Englishman was ahead of him.  “Yes,” he said, “she’s at home. 
I’ll call her,” and he disappeared.

Watching the retreating figure, Sidwell’s black eyes tightened, but he returned and took the place Scotty had vacated.  He gave his companion a glance which, swift as a flash of light upon a sensitized plate, took in every detail of the figure, the bizarre dress, the striking face.

“You are from the West, I judge, Mr. Blair?” he interrogated.

“Dakota,” said Ben, laconically.

Sidwell’s gaze centred on the sombrero.  “Cattle raising, perhaps?” he ventured.