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"You want to cut out this story writing," he said



abruptly, when she paused to find the next page. "It's

bad enough to work like you do in the pictures. This



is going a little too strong; you're as jumpy to-night as

a guiltyconscience. Cut it out."



"I'm all right. I'm just doing that for dramatic

effect. This is very weird, Lite. I ought to have a



green shade on the lamp, to get the proper effect. I--

don't you think--er--those footsteps are terribly



mysterious?"

Lite looked at her sharply for a minute. "I sure



do," he said drily. "Where did you get the idea,

Jean?"



"Out of my head," she told him airily, and went on

reading while Lite studied her curiously.



That night Jean awoke and heard stealthy footsteps,

like a man walking in his socks and no boots, going all



through the house but never coming to her room. She

did not get up to see who it was, but lay perfectly still



and heard her heart thump. When she saw a dim, yellow

ray of light under the door which opened into the



kitchen, she drew the blanket over her head, and got

no comfort whatever from the feel of her six-shooter



close against her hand.

The next morning she told herself that she had given



in to a fine case of nerves, and that the mysterious

footsteps of her story had become mixed up with the



midnight wanderings of a pack-rat that had somehow gotten

into the house. Then she remembered the bar of light



under the door, and the pack-rat theory was spoiled.

She had taken the board off the doorway into the



kitchen, so that she could use the cookstove. The man

could have come in if he had wanted to, and that knowledge



she found extremely disquieting. She went all

through the house that morning, looking and wondering.



The living-room was now the dressing-room of Muriel

and her mother, and the make-up scattered over the



centertable was undisturbed; the wardrobe of the two

women had apparently been left untouched. Yet she



was sure that some one had been prowling in there in the

night. She gave up the puzzle at last and went back to



her breakfast, but before the company arrived in the big,

black automobile, she had found a stout hasp and two



staples, and had fixed the door which led from her room

into the kitchen so that she could fasten it securely on



the inside.

Jean did not tell Lite about the footsteps. She was



afraid that he might insist upon her giving up staying

at the Lazy A. Lite did not approve of it, anyway, and



it would take very little encouragement in the way of

extra risk to make him stubborn about it. Lite could



be very obstinate indeed upon occasion, and she was

afraid he might take a stubbornstreak about this, and



perhaps ride over every night to make sure she was all

right, or do something equally unnecessary and foolish.



She did not know Lite as well as she imagined, which

is frequently the case with the closest of friends. As



a matter of fact, Jean had never spent one night alone

on the ranch, even though she did believe she was doing



so. Lite had a homestead a few miles away, upon

which he was supposed to be sleepingoccasionally to



prove his good faith in the settlement. Instead of spending

his nights there, however, he rode over and slept in



the gable loft over the old granary, where no one ever

went; and he left every morning just before the sky



lightened with dawn. He did not know that Jean was

frightened by the sound of footsteps, but he had heard



the man ride up to the stable and dismount, and he

had followed him to the house and watched him through



the uncurtained windows, and had kept his fingers close

to his gun all the while. Jean did not dream of anything



like that; but Lite, going about his work with the

easy calm that marked his manner always, was quite as






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