THE MAN IN SADDLE
curious limit, the ideal; looking at him through the clear element of innocence, taking his word for everything, as if it had been the fall of fate. Leaving her he looked back at her, down at her, standing between the dark walls of the stair. Strange, inexplicable being! What trifles looked large to her, what gauzy ideas seemed real, what nonsense she talked, that was the very devil to get out of his ears. If only she had retained that one little elision of truth between them, kept on her side one piece of double dealing, it wouldn't have made his business quite so hard!
Hard? He wondered what he meant by that word. The scheme wasn't hard, it was easy; and what she had told him made it easier. It made one more security for Ferrier's silence. He looked around the room where every morning her hands had made disorder smooth, and was aware of a vague irritation beneath the surface of his spirits. He laid hold of materials as if they had been his enemies. His guns were folly—play acting! but he had to take them. Everything else could be inclosed in the roll of blankets and that was light. He worked feverishly, knowing himself late, a thing he hated. He had meant to be at the place of meeting before the men. Waiting had a bad effect on a courage like Ferrier's. As well expect a rabbit to wait! He
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