exclusion of his surroundings, the world at large, and—Judith. He strode
up and down the floor two or three times, and called to Leander, who was
passing:

"Dax, I must have that gray mare of yours right away." He went in the
direction of the stable, without a second glance at the postmistress, and
presently they saw him galloping off in the opposite direction from which
he had come. Mrs. Dax came in with a tray on which were a pot of coffee
and sundry substantial delicacies.

"Where’s he gone?" she demanded, putting the tray down so hard that the
coffee slopped.

"I dunno," said Leander. "He said he’d got to have the gray mare, saddled
her hisself, and rode off like hell."

Mrs. Dax looked at them all savagely for the explanation that they could
not give. In sending her out to make coffee she felt that Peter, whom she
regarded in the light of a weakness, had taken advantage of her affections
to dupe her in regard to his plans.

"Take them things back to the kitchen," she commanded Leander.

Mary Carmichael involuntarily glanced at Judith; the fall of the leaf was
in her cheek.

Peter Hamilton, bowed in his saddle and flogging forward inhumanely, bred
rife speculation as to his destination among the group that watched him
from the Daxes’ front door. Mrs. Dax, who entertained so profound a
respect for her own omniscience that she disdained to arrive at a