clothes as well as I could; removed my spurs and _chaps_; knotted my
silk handkerchief necktie fashion; slicked down my wet hair, and tried
to imagine myself decently turned out for company. I took off my gun
belt also; but after some hesitation thrust the revolver inside the
waistband of my drawers. Had no reason; simply the border instinct to
stick to one's weapon.

Then I sat down to wait. The friendly little noises of my own movements
left me. I give you my word, never before nor since have I experienced
such stillness. In vain I told myself that with adobe walls two feet
thick, a windless evening, and an hour after sunset, stillness was to be
expected. That did not satisfy. Silence is made up of a thousand little
noises so accustomed that they pass over the consciousness. Somehow
these little noises seemed to lack. I sat in an aural vacuum. This
analysis has come to me since. At that time I only knew that most
uneasily I missed something, and that my ears ached from vain listening.

At the end of the half hour I returned to the parlour. Old Man Hooper
was there waiting. A hanging lamp had been lighted. Out of the shadows
cast from it a slender figure rose and came forward.

"My daughter, Mr.----" he paused.

"Sanborn," I supplied.

"My dear, Mr. Sanborn has most kindly dropped in to relieve the tedium
of our evening with his company--his distinguished company." He
pronounced the words suavely, without a trace of sarcastic emphasis, yet
somehow I felt my face flush. And all the time he was staring at me
blankly with his wide, unblinking, wildcat eyes.