“Thank you, I shall,” Ben responded.

Sidwell felt that he too could afford to be generous.

“If there’s anything in the way of amusement or otherwise that I can do for you, Mr. Blair, let me know,” he said, proffering his address.  “I am at your service at any time.”

Ben had reached the walk, but he turned.  For a moment wherein Florence held her breath he looked steadily at the city man.

“We Western men, Mr. Sidwell,” he said at last slowly, “are more or less solitaries.  We take our recreation as we do our work, alone.  In all probability I shall not have occasion to accept your kindness.  But I may call on you before I leave.”  He bowed to both, and replaced his hat.  A “good-night” and he was gone.

Watching the tall figure as it disappeared down the street, Sidwell smiled peculiarly.  “Rather a positive person, your friend,” he remarked.

Like an echo, Florence took up the word.  “Positive!” The small hands pressed tightly together in the speaker’s lap.  “Positive!  You didn’t get even a suggestion of him by that.  I saw a big prairie fire once.  It swept over the country for miles and miles, taking everything clean; and the men fighting it might have been so many children in arms.  I always think of it when I think of Ben Blair.  They are very much alike.”

The smile left Sidwell’s face.  “One can start a back-fire on the prairie,” he said reflectively.  “I fancy the same process might work successfully with Blair also.”

“Perhaps,” admitted Florence.  The time came when both she and Sidwell remembered that suggestion.

But the subject was too large to be dropped immediately.

“Something tells me,” Sidwell added, after a moment, “that you are a bit fearful of this Blair.  Did the gentleman ever attempt to kidnap you—­or anything?”

Florence did not smile.  “No,” she answered.

“What was it, then?  Were you in love, and he cold—­or the reverse?”

Florence dropped her chin into her hands.  “To be frank with you, it was—­the reverse; but I would rather not speak of it.”  She was silent for a moment.  “You are right, though,” she continued, rather recklessly, “when you say I’m afraid of him.  I don’t dare think of him, even.  I want to forget he was ever a part of my life.  He overwhelms me like sleep when I’m tired.  I am helpless.”

Unconsciously Sidwell had stumbled upon the closet which held the skeleton.  “And I—­” he queried, “are you afraid of me?”

The girl’s great brown eyes peered out above her hands steadily.

“No; with us it is not of you I’m afraid—­it’s of myself.”  She arose slowly.  “I’m ready to go driving if you wish,” she said.

CHAPTER XX

CLUB CONFIDENCES

Late the same evening, in the billiard-room of the “Loungers Club” Clarence Sidwell met one Winston Hough, seemingly by chance, though in fact very much the reverse.  Big and blonde, addicted to laughter, Hough was one of the few men with whom Sidwell fraternized,—­why, only the Providence which makes like and unlike attract each other could have explained.  However, it was with deliberate intent that Sidwell entered the most brilliantly lighted room in the place and sought out the group of which Hough was the centre.