For a moment the other stared at him, lips open.
"You're not lyin' to me, Rowe?" Impulses were in conflict within him; he breathed faster. "It was that, was it? It wasn't anything else? He did that because of me?"
"Yes, sir."
Rowe maintained his composure by effort. He saw the strange admiration in the old man's face, mingling with paternal instinct, with rage.
"No. You wouldn't lie—" a sharp hiss of impatience slipped from Luke and rage alone remained in his face. "Jail, eh? Lucky for him—th'cub. Lucky he don't have to face me this mornin'—after puttin' that face on you—for trying to carry out my orders!"
It was nine o'clock when young Wilcox, flattered and flustered, drove his automobile down to the station and backed it in beside the Taylor car. He cleared his throat nervously as Rowe helped the great Luke down the steps and got out of his seat to remove his hat and self-consciously acknowledge the introduction.
Luke merely grunted at Wilcox and settled into the seat. He had nothing to say as the car rolled out of town and took up the twisting trail to the northward. He had on a linen duster, his hat was drawn low, amber glasses protected his eyes, and as soon as they were settled Rowe tucked a robe about his ankles. Within a mile, however, Luke kicked this protection irritably aside and glared at his secretary as though the accustomed precaution against chill were an affront.
They topped a high ridge, made bald by repeated fires, and away before them spread the country, like a tinted
