“little girl.” She realized that he had used the term in kindness, but he must not think of her as a little girl. She was for a moment a business woman with an important transaction to carry through.

“You want to sell it?” she said briskly.

“We have offered to sell.”

“For twenty-one thousand?”

“About that.” He was staring at her now. He stared harder when she said: “I am authorized to buy it at that price.”

For a moment he did not speak; just kept his keen grey eyes upon her.

“I am waiting,” he said at last in a droll drawl, “for the smile.”

“The—the smile?”

“Of course, you are joking.”

“I am not joking.” She was tempted to be angry now. “Here—here’s the proof. It’s the—Mr. Dobson called it the earnest money.” She dragged the five hundred dollars in bank notes from her blouse.

For ten seconds after that her heart fluttered wildly. What if this whole affair were a game played by these men at her expense? What if this man was not Caleb Powell at all? The thought of the consequences made her head whirl.

But no, the guard of a half hour before was staring, popeyed, at the sheaf of bills.

“That looks like business,” said Caleb Powell. “Your Mr. Dobson—I know him well. So he made you his agent? Well, well! That’s singular. But men do strange things. I suppose he sent a contract?”

“Yes, yes.” She was eager now. “Here it is.”

“Well,” he said quietly.

Then turning to the former guard, he said; “You’ll not be wanting anything further of the girl, Jim?”

“Reckon not,” the man drawled.

“Then, Miss—er—”

“Ormsby,” she volunteered.

“Then, Miss Ormsby, if you’ll be so kind as to mount behind me, I’ll take you down to the house. We’ll fix up the papers. After that we’ll have a bite to eat and I’ll send you over the mountain.”

The hours that followed were long-to-be-remembered. The signing of the papers, the talk on the cool veranda, a perfect dinner, then the long, long ride home over the mountains on a perfect horse with a guide and guard at her side, and all this crowned by the consciousness of a wonderful success after days of perils and threatened failure; all these seemed a dream indeed.

One thing Florence remembered distinctly. She had said to Caleb Powell:

“Mr. Powell, why did those men wish to hold me prisoner?”

“Miss Ormsby,” he said, and there was no smile upon his lips, “some of our people are what you might call ‘plumb quare’.”

That was all he had said, and for some time to come that was all she was destined to know about the reason for her mysterious captivity.

Only one thought troubled her as she neared the whipsawed cabin, and that, she told herself, was only a bad dream.

That it was more than a dream she was soon to learn. Two days later Mr. Dobson, having dismounted at their cabin, smiled with pleasure when he was told of the successful purchase of Caleb Powell’s coal land. Then for a moment a frown darkened his face.

“I—I hate to tell you,” he hesitated.

“You don’t have to,” said Florence quickly. “Please allow me to guess. You were about to tell us that it is necessary to spend a great deal of time looking up records and getting papers signed before you have a clear title to this mountain land, and that we can’t have our money until you have your title.”

“That puts it a little strongly,” said Mr. Dobson, smiling a little strangely. “As fast as we can clear up the titles to certain tracts my company has authorized me to pay that portion of the commission. I should say you ought to have your first installment within four months. It may be six, however. Matters move slowly here in the mountains.”

“Four months!” exclaimed Marion.

“Not sooner, I fear.”

“Four—” Marion began, but Florence squeezed her arm as she whispered; “It’s no use. We can’t help it and neither can they? There must be some other way. Besides, we haven’t yet elected our trustee.”