was calling, a persistent melancholy sound. All at once he hated the place. He wanted the cheerful lights and sounds of the city, the roar of cars, the clanging of tram-bells. He wanted his own comfortable apartment, and to dress and dine out, with Kay next to him and the orderly service of the meal going on:
"Champagne or whisky and soda, sir?"
He went a long way that evening in the moonlight, clear across the alfalfa and the wheat stubble to the main road. A stray bull with a white face eyed him indifferently; a skunk watched him warily from the bank of a ditch; but he trudged on, busy with his thoughts.
Out on the road he turned back toward the main gate, to be overtaken by a ramshackle Ford, driven by a girl, a rather pretty girl, he thought. She glanced at him and glanced away without interest, and at the main gate she turned in.
He forgot her at once, until some time later he came across the Ford, parked out of sight of the ranch house, and saw the gleam of her white dress among the timber by the creek. She was not alone; a man was leaning negligently against a tree, apparently listening to her in silence.
Herbert could hear the shrill half-hysterical quality of her voice, saw the man light a match and probably a cigarette, and realized that some small emotional drama was taking place in the twilight. He went by hastily and without a second glance toward them, but he knew that the man was Tom McNair.
