many yards before it stopped.  Dick Boyle glanced around.  Miss Cantire was getting down.  She had expressed a wish to walk the rest of the ascent, and the coach was to wait for her at the top.  Foster had effusively begged her to take her own time—­“there was no hurry!” Boyle glanced a little longingly after her graceful figure, released from her cramped position on the box, as it flitted youthfully in and out of the wayside trees; he would like to have joined her in the woodland ramble, but even his good nature was not proof against her indifference.  At a turn in the road they lost sight of her, and, as the driver and mail agent were deep in a discussion about the indistinct track, Boyle lapsed into his silent study of the country.  Suddenly he uttered a slight exclamation, and quietly slipped from the back of the toiling coach to the ground.  The action was, however, quickly noted by the driver, who promptly put his foot on the brake and pulled up.  “Wot’s up now?” he growled.

Boyle did not reply, but ran back a few steps and began searching eagerly on the ground.

“Lost suthin?” asked Foster.

“Found something,” said Boyle, picking up a small object.  “Look at that!  D——­d if it isn’t the card I gave that Indian four hours ago at the station!” He held up the card.

“Look yer, sonny,” retorted Foster gravely, “ef yer wantin’ to get out and hang round Miss Cantire, why don’t yer say so at oncet?  That story won’t wash!”

“Fact!” continued Boyle eagerly.  “It’s the same card I stuck in his hat—­there’s the greasy mark in the corner.  How the devil did it—­how did he get here?”

“Better ax him,” said Foster grimly, “ef he’s anywhere round.”

“But I say, Foster, I don’t like the look of this at all!  Miss Cantire is alone, and”—­

But a burst of laughter from Foster and the mail agent interrupted him.  “That’s so,” said Foster.  “That’s your best holt!  Keep it up!  You jest tell her that!  Say thar’s another Injin skeer on; that that thar bloodthirsty ole ‘Fleas in His Blanket’ is on the warpath, and you’re goin’ to shed the last drop o’ your blood defendin’ her!  That’ll fetch her, and she ain’t bin treatin’ you well!  G’lang!”

The horses started forward under Foster’s whip, leaving Boyle standing there, half inclined to join in the laugh against himself, and yet impelled by some strange instinct to take a more serious view of his discovery.  There was no doubt it was the same card he had given to the Indian.  True, that Indian might have given it to another—­yet by what agency had it been brought there faster than the coach traveled on the same road, and yet invisibly to them?  For an instant the humorous idea of literally accepting Foster’s challenge, and communicating his discovery to Miss Cantire, occurred to him; he could have made a funny story out of it, and could have amused any other girl with it, but he would not force himself upon her, and again doubted if the discovery were a matter of amusement.  If it were really serious, why should he alarm her?  He resolved, however, to remain on the road, and within convenient distance of her, until she returned to the coach; she could not be far away.  With this purpose he walked slowly on, halting occasionally to look behind.