So his explanation scarcely explained.
"I was on my way to a ranch--that is, to the capital--when these men
held me up," he stammered. "They--they mistook me for some one else, I
think, and for reasons best known to themselves they brought me here. If
you could direct me to some place where I can get a night's lodging--"
"There is nothing like a tavern within twenty miles of here," she broke
in; "nor is there any house within that radius which would refuse you a
night's shelter, Mr.--"
Blount made a quick dive for his card-case, found it, and hastened to
introduce himself by name. She took the bit of pasteboard, and, since
she scarcely glanced at the engraved line on it, he found himself wholly
unable to interpret her smile.
"The card is hardly necessary," she said; and then, to his complete
bewilderment: "You are very much like your father, Mr. Blount."
"You know my father?" he exclaimed.
She laughed softly. "Every one knows the senator," she returned, "and I
can assure you that his son is heartily welcome under this roof. Uncle
Barnabas"--to the ancient serving-man who was still hovering in the
background--"have Mr. Blount's horse put up and the blue room made
ready."
Blount followed his still unnamed hostess obediently when she led the
way to the lighted library in the wing of the great house.
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