barbarian from

Ed low at the nape of the neck. At times she had a boylike unconcern of
sex; again, a spirit wholly feminine. The clothes of her father fitted
Lindsay loosely, for Colin Whitford had begun to take on the flesh of
middle age and Clay was lean and clean of build as an elk. But the
Westerner was one of those to whom clothes are unimportant. The splendid
youth of him would have shone through the rags of a beggar. "My name is
Clay Lindsay," he told her by way of introduction. "Mine is Beatrice
Whitford," she answered. They shook hands. "I'm to wait here till my
clothes dry, yore man says." "Then you'd better sit down," she
suggested. Within five minutes she knew that he had been in New York
less than three hours. His impressions of the city amused and
entertained her. He was quite simple. She could look into his mind as
though it were a deep, clear well. There was something inextinguishably
boyish and buoyant about him. But in his bronzed face and steady,
humorous eyes were strength and shrewdness. He was the last man in the
world a bunco-steerer could play for a sucker. She felt that. Yet he
made no pretenses of a worldly wisdom he did not have. A voice reached
them from the top of the stairs. "Do you know where Miss Whitford is,
Jenkins?" "Hin the Red Room, sir." The answer was in the even, colorless
voice of a servant. The girl rose at once. "If you'll excuse me," she
said, and stepped out of the room. "Hello, Bee. What do you think? I
never saw such idiots as the police of this town are. They're watching
this house for a desperado who assaulted some one outside. I met a
sergeant on our steps. Says he doesn't think the man's here, but there's
just a chance he slipped into the basement. It's absurd." "Of course it
is." There was a ripple of mirth in the g

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