Dave spent the morning sunning himself on the porch, reading the papers with their exciting news, and speculating over the significance of his mental collapse.  The more he thought of it now the more ominous it seemed.  One result which particularly distressed him was the change it had wrought in Paloma Jones’s bearing; for of a sudden the girl had become distant and formal.  The reason was not far to seek; Dave could not doubt that the knowledge of his secret had frightened her.  Well, that was to be expected—­he would probably lose all his friends in time.  It was a bitter thought; life would be very dull and flat without friends.  He wondered how he could bear to see those who loved him turn away; to see their liking change to restraint and fear, as it threatened to do in Paloma’s case.  Better anything than that.

There was, however, one friend who, Dave knew, would not shun him; one of whose lasting affection he felt sure; and at memory of her he came to his feet.  Montrosa would trust him.  She had given him her heart, and her loyalty would never waver.  With a clutch at his throat, and a little pain in his breast, he stumbled down the steps and went in search of her.

Now during Dave’s absence Paloma had done her best to spoil the mare, and among other marks of favor had allowed her free run of the yard, where the shade was cool and the grass fine, and where delicious tidbits were to be had from the kitchen for the mere asking.  In consequence, Dave did not go far until he was discovered.  Montrosa signaled, then trotted toward him with ears and tail lifted.  Her delight was open and extravagant; her welcome was as enthusiastic as a horse could make it.  Gone were her coquetry and her airs; she nosed and nibbled Dave; she rubbed and rooted him with the violence of a battering-ram, and permitted him to hug her and murmur words of love into her velvet ears.  She swapped confidence for confidence, too; and then, when he finally walked back toward the house, she followed closely, as if fearful that he might again desert her.

Phil Strange met the lovers as they turned the corner of the porch, and warmly shook Dave’s hand.  “Teeny—­my wife—­told me you was better,” he began, “so I beat it out here.  I hung around all day yesterday, waiting to see you, but you was batty.”

“I was pretty sick,” Dave acknowledged.  “Mrs. Strange was mighty kind to me.”

“Sick people get her goat.  She’s got a way with ’em, and with animals, too.  Why, Rajah, the big python with our show, took sick one year, and he’d have died sure only for her.  Same with a lot of the other animals.  She knows more’n any vet I ever saw.”

“Perhaps I needed a veterinary instead of a doctor,” Dave smiled.  “I guess I’ve got some horse blood in me.  See!” Montrosa had thrust her head under his arm and was waiting for him to scratch her ears.

“Well, I brought you some mail.”  Strange fumbled in his pocket for a small bundle of letters, explaining:  “Blaze gave me these for you as I passed the post office.  Now I wonder if you feel good enough to talk business.”