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Stead, Robert J. C., 1880-1959

"The Cow Puncher"

This indicated a policy of some kind; a scheme deeper than
Dave was as yet able to fathom. He would at least guard against any
further eavesdropping on his telephone.
He took a card from his pocket, and made some figures on it. "If you
should have occasion to call me at the office at any time, please use
that number, and ask for me," he said. "It is the accountant's number.
'There's a reason.'"
It flattered his masculine authority that she put the card in her purse
without comment. She did not ask him to explain. Dave knew that when
a woman no longer asks for explanations she pays man her highest
compliment.
The cups were empty; the sandwiches and cake were gone, but they
lingered on.
"I have been wondering," Dave ventured at length, "just where I
stand--with you. You remember our agreement?"
She averted her eyes, but her voice was steady. "You have observed the
terms?" she said.
"Yes--in all essential matters. I come to you now--in accordance with
those terms. You said that we would know. Now _I_ know; know as I
have always known since those wonderful days in the foothills; those
days from which I date my existence. Anything worth while that has
ripened in my life was sown by your smile and your confidence and your
strange pride in me, back in those sunny days. And I would repay it
all--and at the same time double my debt--by returning it to you, if I
may."
"I realize that I owe you an answer, now, Dave," she said, frankly.


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