“No, I don’t doubt you,” he said.

Ben likewise sat down, but his eyes were inexorable.

“First of all, then,” he went on, “you will admit you were mistaken when you said there was no point where we touched?”

“Yes, I was mistaken.”

“And you were not serious when you refused to talk with me?”

A spasm of repugnance shot over the host’s dark face.  He heard the labored breathing of the negro in the corner, and felt the eyes of his big friend upon him.

“Yes, I was not serious,” he admitted slowly.

Ben’s long legs crossed, his hands closed on the chair-arms.

“Very well, then,” he said.  “Tell me what there is between you and Miss Baker.”

Sidwell lit a cigar, though the hand that held the match trembled.

“Everything, I hope,” he said.  “I intend marrying her.”

The ranchman’s face gave no sign at the confession.

“You have asked her, have you?”

“No.  Your coming prevented.  I should otherwise have done so to-day.”

The long fingers on the chair-arms tightened until they grew white.

“You knew why I came to town, did you not?”

Sidwell hesitated.

“I had an intuition,” he admitted reluctantly.

Again silence fell, and the subdued roar of the city came to their ears.

“You have not called at the Baker home to-day,” continued Blair.  “Was it consideration for me that kept you away?” The thin, weather-browned face grew, if possible, more clean-cut.  “Remember to talk straight.”

Sidwell took the cigar from his lips.  An exultation he could not quite repress flooded him.  His eyes met the other’s fair.

“No,” he said, “it was anything but consideration for you.  I knew she was going to refuse you.”

In the corner the negro’s eyes widened.  Even Hough held his breath; but not a muscle of Ben Blair’s body stirred.

“You say you knew,” he said evenly.  “How did you know?”

Sidwell flicked the ash from his cigar steadily.  He was regaining, if not his courage, at least some of his presence of mind.  This seeming desperado from the West was a being upon whom reason was not altogether wasted.

“I knew because her mother told me—­about all there was to tell, I guess—­of your relations before Florence came here.  I knew if she refused you then she would be more apt to do so now.”

Still the figure in brown was that of a statue.

“She told you—­what—­you say?”

Sidwell shifted uncomfortably.  He saw breakers ahead.

“The—­main reason at least,” he modified.

“Which was—­” insistently.

Sidwell hesitated, his new-found confidence vanishing like the smoke from his cigar.  But there was no escape.

“The reason, she said, was because you were—­minus a pedigree.”

The last words dropped like a bomb in the midst of the room.  Ben Blair swiftly rose from his seat.  The negro’s eyes rolled around in search of some place of concealment.  With a protesting movement Hough was on his feet.