Suddenly, at a slight bend of the road, the corner of the little red building came in sight, some hundreds of yards ahead; and, on the side where it stood, in the clearing, was a white mass which Victoria recognized as a pile of lumber.  She saw several men on the top of the pile, standing motionless; she heard one of them shout; the horse swerved, and she felt herself flung violently to the left.

Her first thought, after striking, was one of self-congratulation that her safety stirrup and habit had behaved properly.  Before she could rise, a man was leaning over her—­and in the instant she had the impression that he was a friend.  Other people had had this impression of him on first acquaintance—­his size, his genial, brick-red face, and his honest blue eyes all doubtless contributing.

“Are you hurt, Miss Flint?” he asked.

“Not in the least,” she replied, springing to her feet to prove the contrary.  What’s become of my horse?”

“Two of the men have gone after him,” he said, staring at her with undisguised but honest admiration.  Whereupon he became suddenly embarrassed, and pulled out a handkerchief the size of a table napkin.  “Let me dust you off.”

“Thank you,” said Victoria, laughing, and beginning the process herself.  Her new acquaintance plied the handkerchief, his face a brighter brick-red than ever.

“Thank God, there wasn’t a freight on the siding,” he remarked, so fervently that Victoria stole a glance at him.  The dusting process continued.

“There,” she exclaimed, at last, adjusting her stock and shaking her skirt, “I’m ever so much obliged.  It was very foolish in me to tumble off, wasn’t it?”

“It was the only thing you could have done,” he declared.  “I had a good view of it, and he flung you like a bean out of a shooter.  That’s a powerful horse.  I guess you’re the kind that likes to take risks.”

Victoria laughed at his expressive phrase, and crossed the road, and sat down on the edge of the lumber pile, in the shade.

“There seems to be nothing to do but wait,” she said, “and to thank you again.  Will you tell me your name?”

“I’m Tom Gaylord,” he replied.

Her colour, always so near the surface, rose a little as she regarded him.  So this was Austen Vane’s particular friend, whom he had tried to put out of his window.  A Herculean task, Victoria thought, from Tom’s appearance.  Tom sat down within a few feet of her.

“I’ve seen you a good many times, Miss Flint,” he remarked, applying the handkerchief to his face.

“And I’ve seen you—­once, Mr. Gaylord,” some mischievous impulse prompted her to answer.  Perhaps the impulse was more deep-seated, after all.

“Where?” demanded Tom, promptly.

“You were engaged,” said Victoria, “in a struggle in a window on Ripton Square.  It looked, for a time,” she continued, “as if you were going to be dropped on the roof of the porch.”