was Silver Star, the finest of all his magnificent horses--she had yet
to pay for his death. The strain that she had gone through since the
morning was tremendous, she could not bear much more. His silence
aggravated her breaking nerves until she felt that her nerves would go.
He had moved over to the writing-table and was tearing the wrapping off
a box of cartridges preparatory to refilling the magazine of his
revolver. The little operation seemed to take centuries. She started at
each separate click. She gripped her hands and passed her tongue over
her dry lips. If he would not speak she must, she could endure it no
longer.

"I am sorry about Silver Star," she faltered, and even to herself her
voice sounded hoarse and strange. He did not answer, but only shrugged
his shoulders as he dropped the last cartridge into its place.

The gesture and his uncompromising attitude exasperated her. "You had
better have shot me," she said bitterly.

"Perhaps. You would have been easier replaced. There are plenty of
women, but Silver Star was almost unique," he retorted quickly, and she
winced at the cold brutality of his tone.

A little sad smile curved her lips. "Yet you shot your horse to get me
back," she said in a barely audible voice.

He flung round with an oath. "You little fool! Do you know so little of
me yet? Do you think that I will let anything stand between me and what
I want? Do you think that by running away from me you will make me want
you less? By Allah! I would have found you if you had got as far as
France. What I have I keep, until I tire of it--and I have not tired of