isn't it? Trixie Corliss?"
"No," said Miss Corliss emphatically. "It is not. It is Beatrice Corliss."
"How old?" was the next question. Steele's head was a little to one side, he had the air of a man appraising the age of a horse he meant to buy.
"Is that necessary?" asked the girl coldly.
"Essential!" he cried warmly. "What I want is to find the real you under the name, Beatrice Corliss; woman of affairs. I'd judge you at twenty-five."
"Twenty-one," said Miss Corliss aloofly. "Next November."
"Um," said Steele thoughtfully, though she was never sure that a grave expression did not mask a grin at her. "It takes big money interests to put in the fine lines, doesn't it? Next: How big a proposition have you at hand here?"
"Meaning just what, Mr. Steele?" she asked stiffly.
"The ranch. … By the way, it's called the Queen's Ranch, isn't it?"
"To answer your last question, yes."
"Just of late, I believe? It used to be known as Thunder River Ranch, didn't it?"
"Yes. To both questions."
"And it was to mark your coming that the name changed? Because of your … let me see; how shall I put it pertinently? … of your queenly appearance? Or queenly way of running things? Or both? Just why, Miss Corliss, please?"
The question was put with much grave innocence. Still she had the uneasy impression that he was making fun of her. She had known people to dislike her just as she had known people to fawn and curry favour; it had never entered her experience to have any one, least of all a man, make fun of her. Still she met his eyes steadily and without noticeable hesitation answered.
"I believe I have been called autocratic. It is my own ranch and I do what I please with it."
"I believe you," he agreed pleasantly. "Now the ranch; how many acres?"
"Something over thirty thousand, including mountain and timber lands. My manager, Booth Stanton, can give you such information as this. Even better than I."
"The land alone, then, is valued at close to half a million?"
"I value it at something over that."
"To the tax assessor or the press?"
"To the press," she said steadily, with no flicker of the smile he had fished for.
"Exclusive of the Little Giant mine?"
"Certainly."
"That is on a paying basis?"
"Stanton can give you the figures. It netted me last year something over twenty thousand."
"Whew!" commented Steele. "I wish I had a mine like that."
Here being no question she offered no remark. Bradford, ever watchful, gave a signal with one of his expressive thin hands and a servitor in livery appeared with the next course. For a moment conversation died as Steele ate and pondered. Then,
"You manage all of your own affairs?"
"Yes. I have, of course, capable men under me to take my orders and give expert attention to the various branches of my work. I don't pretend to know anything about mining operations, for instance."
"The queen acknowledges the limitations of humanity," he chuckled. "Well, let's get on. Next question: You have lands along the upper waters of Thunder River?"
"Yes,"
"Near the place that is called Hell's Goblet?"
"Yes."
"At what figure do you hold those lands? They're mostly rock and big timber, aren't they?"
"They are not for sale."
"The world's for sale!" he laughed carelessly. "If the price happens to be big enough. Would you take, say twenty dollars an acre for a section in there? That's big money, you know, for wild, rough land so far from anywhere."
"No. I wouldn't accept twenty dollars. Nor yet fifty. I'm not selling, Mr. Steele."
"Why?" he asked curiously.
"Because," she flared out, "I don't want to. And I fail to see the drift of your questions."
"That should be plain enough." Under this second signal of her hot displeasure he was as cheerful as though she were smiling upon him, "You told me to ask what questions I pleased and you would answer them. I have naturally taken advantage of a pleasant situation. From the point of the lands about Hell's Goblet I was going to another pertinent one."
"Let us have it," she said sharply.
"Are you engaged?" asked Steele. "Or even in love?"
Never until now had she met a man like this one. Plainly, for one of those rare occasions in her life, she was uncertain of just what to do or say. Finally, speaking with a marked lack of expression she replied:
"I fail to see why the public should be interested in knowing about so intimate and purely personal a matter."
"Hang the public! I'm not the public. I'm just Bill Steele, and I want to know."
"Then, Mr. Bill Steele, may I answer that it is none of your business?"
"Sure thing. No harm done at all. Next … "
"Next," she interrupted before he could go on, "you will please confine your desire for information to such matters as your paper has instructed you to get."
Steele's laughter startled her, booming out suddenly. A look of sheer wonder came into her eyes; she began to think the man mad.
"Paper!" He choked over the word. "Why bless your soul, my dear girl, I'm no more a newspaper man than you are. 'Fess up, now; can't you remember having heard of Bill Steele? Knew your father for years Bill Steele, mining engineer, gentleman of adverse fortune, lord of an empty pocket and a full heart? Come now; think."
A dead silence fell in the little luncheon room after the merry burst of Steele's laughter. Beatrice Corliss looked at him with a sort of horrified expression of incredulity in her eyes. Her gasp and Bradford's, twin signals of consternation, had been lost in her guest's echoing enjoyment of the situation.
"Bradford told me," she said, her voice at last a trifle uncertain, "that you were representing the New York Sun."
"Bradford slipped up," cried Steele in hearty appreciation of the look he surprised just then in Bradford's eyes. "He simply guessed and guessed wrong."
Miss Corliss turned in her chair, her eyes upon Bradford. The major domo's face went a painful scarlet. For once in his life his two hands met in front of him, clasped and lifted in an attitude of prayer.
For the second time in
