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Harboro tactfully sought for more definite details; and when he gathered that the affair would be too immense to be at all formal that there would be introductions only so far as separate groups of persons were concerned, and that guests would be expected to come and go with perfect freedom, he accepted the invitation gratefully.
His was the stronger determination of the two. Fectnor had not flinched, but he knew that his heart was not in this fight. He could see that Harboro was a good deal of a man. A fool, perhaps, but still a decent fellow. These were conclusions which had come in flashes, while Fectnor took less than half a dozen steps.
The little home beacons abroad in the desert were blotted out one by one. Eagle Pass became a ghostly group of houses from which the last vestiges of life vanished. She became stiff and inert as she sat in her place with her eyes held dully on the road. Once she dozed lightly, to awaken with an intensified sense of tragedy. Had Harboro returned during that brief interval of unconsciousness?
Might have smelled out his trail. Or he might have heard them talking about going to Spofford, and understood. The more you know about dogs the less you know about them same as humans." He went back farther into the stable and busied himself with a harness that needed mending. Harboro was looking after him with peculiar intensity.
It made Sylvia look like a gentle queen of marionettes. A set of jewelry of silver filigree had been bought to go with it: circles of butterflies of infinite delicacy for bracelets, and a necklace. You would have said there was only wanting a star to bind in her hair and a wand for her to carry. But the Mesquite Club ball came and went, and the Harboros were not invited. Harboro was stunned.
She was Sylvia Little. Sylvia, people called her, both before and after her marriage. The Little might as well never have belonged to her. Although neither Harboro nor Sylvia really belonged to Eagle Pass, the wedding was an event. Both had become familiar figures in the life of the town and were pretty well known. Their wedding drew a large and interested audience.
"Yes," assented Dunwoodie, the other man. He was a young lawyer whose father had recently died in Belfast, leaving him money enough to quench a thirst which always flourished, but which never resulted in even partial disqualification, either for business or pleasure. "Yes, but Harboro is.... Say, Blanchard, did you ever know another chap like Harboro?" "I can't say I know him very well."
She realized heavily that the thing which had happened was not a complete episode in itself; it was only one chapter in a long story which had its beginnings in the first days in Eagle Pass, and even further away. Back in the San Antonio days. She could not give Harboro an intelligent statement of one chapter without detailing a long, complicated synopsis of the chapters that went before.
He good-naturedly insisted upon the leave of absence taking effect immediately. And Harboro had turned back toward Eagle Pass pondering darkly. He scanned the street in the direction of the stable. A stable-boy was exercising a young horse in the street, leading it back and forth, but otherwise the thoroughfare seemed somnolently quiet. He sauntered along until he came to the stable entrance.
She could not understand his conduct at all. She was wounded; and then she began to think more directly, more clearly. Harboro was not putting this thing away from him. In his way he was facing it. But how? She noiselessly climbed the stairs and opened the door of their bedroom. With great exactitude of movement he was cleaning a pistol.
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