Except for the dust that had gathered lightly in its owner's absence,
the place was as neat and clean as if the housemaid had but gone over
it. Hazel shrugged her shoulders. Roaring Bill Wagstaff became, if
anything, more of an enigma than ever, in the light of his dwelling.
She recollected that Cariboo Meadows had regarded him askance, and
wondered why.
He came in while her gaze was still roving from one object to another,
and threw his wet outer clothing, boy fashion, on the nearest chair.
"Well," he said, "we're here."
"Please don't forget, Mr. Wagstaff," she replied coldly, "that I would
much prefer not to be here."
He stood a moment regarding her with his odd smile. Then he went into
the adjoining room. Out of this he presently emerged, dragging a small
steamer trunk. He opened it, got down on his knees, and pawed over the
contents. Hazel, looking over her shoulder, saw that the trunk was
filled with woman's garments, and sat amazed.
"Say, little person," Bill finally remarked, "it looks to me as if you
could outfit yourself completely right here."
"I don't know that I care to deck myself in another woman's finery,
thank you," she returned perversely.
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