had tried to read in a recumbent position. A French window opening
upon a veranda, which never before in the history of the house had been
unfastened, now betrayed by its waving lace curtain the way that the
fugitive had escaped. Mr. McClosky heaved a sigh of despair. He looked
at the gorgeous carpet purchased in Sacramento at a fabulous price, at
the crimson satin and rosewood furniture unparalleled in the history
of Tuolumne, at the massively-framed pictures on the walls, and looked
beyond it, through the open window, to the reckless man, who, fleeing
these sybaritic allurements, was smoking a cigar upon the moonlit road.
This room, which had so often awed the youth of Tuolumne into filial
respect, was evidently a failure. It remained to be seen if the "Rose"
herself had lost her fragrance. "I reckon Jinny will fetch him yet,"
said Mr. McClosky with parental faith.

He stepped from the window upon the veranda; but he had scarcely done
this, before his figure was detected by the stranger, who at once
crossed the road. When within a few feet of McClosky, he stopped. "You
persistent old plantigrade!" he said in a low voice, audible only to the
person addressed, and a face full of affected anxiety, "why don't you go
to bed? Didn't I tell you to go and leave me here alone? In the name of
all that's idiotic and imbecile, why do you continue to shuffle about
here? Or are you trying to drive me crazy with your presence, as you
have with that wretched music-box that I've just dropped under yonder
tree? It's an hour and a half yet before the stage passes: do you think,
do you imagine for a single moment, that I can tolerate you until then,
eh? Why don't you speak? Are you asleep? You don't mean to say that you
have the audacity to add somnambulism to your other weaknesses? you're
not low enough to repeat yourself under any such weak pretext as that,
eh?"