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In the deathly silence I heard Redstock's hoarse breathing. Mount knelt down and gently lifted a heavy mass of dark, silky hair. At last Elerson broke the silence, speaking in a strangely gentle and monotonous voice. "I think this hair was Janet McCrea's. I saw her many times at Half-moon. No maid in Tryon County had hair like hers."
I felt relieved when a young girl near me asked, "Miss Metz, do you like the movies? There's a place near here where they show fine pictures, funny ones to make you forget the war for several hours, at least." On the whole, I think I'm going to like life at Mrs. McCrea's boarding-house. I hear the views of so many different sorts of people. And it certainly is different from my life on the farm.
McCrea had wired ahead to an old and trusted friend, a resident of Denver and a successful railway engineer. He was at the station waiting when the two alighted from their train. It was McCrea's plan to spend one day in Denver in consultation with certain officials, and then to spring a surprise on the "board" at Argenta two days later.
"Down on your faces! Down!" And "down" was his last word, as down on his bullet-riven face he plunged, shot dead through the brain. Almost at the same moment McCrea's galloping steed stumbled heavily forward and rolled stiffening on the frozen earth, his gallant rider flung headlong beyond him.
Allison McCrea's income, combined with his wife's, was exactly enough to enable them to live in this house and entertain on the scale it very definitely prescribed, just half the time. Every other year they went off around the world in one direction or another, and rented their house furnished for exactly enough to pay all their expenses.
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