But instantly he stepped forward again, and brought his face so close to the window that they could see the whites of his eyes.  “Before we part,” he murmured, persuasively, “you wouldn’t mind leaving me something as a souvenir, would you?” He turned the skull-like openings of the mask full upon Miss Post.

Mrs. Truesdall exclaimed, hysterically:  “Why, certainly not!” she cried.  “Here’s everything I have, except what’s sewn inside my waist, where I can’t possibly get at it.  I assure you I cannot.  The proprietor of that hotel told us we’d probably—­meet you, and so I have everything ready.”  She thrust her two hands through the window.  They held a roll of bills, a watch, and her rings

Miss Post laughed in an ecstasy of merriment “Oh, no, aunt,” she protested, “don’t.  No, not at all.  The gentleman only wants a keepsake.  Something to remember us by.  Isn’t that it?” she asked.  She regarded the blood-red mask steadily with a brilliant smile.

The road agent did not at once answer.  At her words he had started back with such sharp suspicion that one might have thought he meditated instant flight.  Through the holes in his mask he now glared searchingly at Miss Post, but still in silence.

“I think this will satisfy him,” said Miss Post.

Out of the collection in her aunt’s hands she picked a silver coin and held it forward.  “Something to keep as a pocket-piece,” she said, mockingly, “to remind you of your kindness to three lone females in distress.”

Still silent, the road agent reached for the money, and then growled at her in a tone which had suddenly become gruff and overbearing.  It suggested to Miss Post the voice of the head of the family playing Santa Claus for the children.  “And now you, miss,” he demanded.

Miss Post took another coin from the heap, studied its inscription, and passed it through the window.  “This one is from me,” she said.  “Mine is dated 1901.  The moonlight,” she added, leaning far forward and smiling out at him, “makes it quite easy to see the date; as easy,” she went on, picking her words, “as it is to see your peculiar revolver and the coat-of-arms on your ring.”  She drew her head back.”  Good-night,” she cooed, sweetly.

The Red Rider jumped from the door.  An exclamation which might have been a laugh or an oath was smothered by his mask.  He turned swiftly upon the salesman.  “Get back into the coach,” he commanded.  “And you, Hunk,” he called, “if you send a posse after me, next night I ketch you out here alone you’ll lose the top of your head.”

The salesman scrambled into the stage through the door opposite the one at which the Red Rider was standing, and the road agent again raised his sombrero with a sweeping gesture worthy of D’Artagnan.  “Good-night, ladies,” he said.

“Good-night, sir,” Mrs. Truesdall answered, grimly, but exuding a relieved sigh.  Then, her indignation giving her courage, she leaned from the window and hurled a Parthian arrow.  “I must say,” she protested, “I think you might be in a better business.”