Judge Claiborne was distinguished for his acute and sinewy mind; but he had, too, a strong feeling for art in all its expressions, and it was his gift of imagination,—­the ability to forecast the enemy’s strategy and then strike his weakest point,—­that had made him a great lawyer and diplomat.  Shirley had played chess with her father until she had learned to see around corners as he did, and she liked a problem, a test of wit, a contest of powers.  She knew how to wait and ponder in silence, and therein lay the joy of the saddle, when she could ride alone with no groom to bother her, and watch enchantments unfold on the hilltops.

Once free of the settlement she rode far and fast, until she was quite beyond the usual routes of the Springs excursionists; then in mountain byways she enjoyed the luxury of leisure and dismounted now and then to delight in the green of the laurel and question the rhododendrons.

Jules Chauvenet had scoured the hills all day and explored many mountain paths and inquired cautiously of the natives.  The telegraph operator at the Storm Springs inn was a woman, and the despatch and receipt by Jules Chauvenet of long messages, many of them in cipher, piqued her curiosity.  No member of the Washington diplomatic circle who came to the Springs,—­not even the shrewd and secretive Russian Ambassador,—­received longer or more cryptic cables.  With the social diversions of the Springs and the necessity for making a show of having some legitimate business in America, Jules Chauvenet was pretty well occupied; and now the presence of John Armitage in Virginia added to his burdens.

He was tired and perplexed, and it was with unaffected pleasure that he rode out of an obscure hill-path into a bit of open wood overhanging a curious defile and came upon Shirley Claiborne.

The soil was soft and his horse carried him quite near before she heard him.  A broad sheet of water flashed down the farther side of the narrow pass, sending up a pretty spurt of spray wherever it struck the jutting rock.  As Shirley turned toward him he urged his horse over the springy turf.

“A pity to disturb the picture, Miss Claiborne!  A thousand pardons!  But I really wished to see whether the figure could come out of the canvas.  Now that I have dared to make the test, pray do not send me away.”

Her horse turned restlessly and brought her face to face with Chauvenet.

“Steady, Fanny!  Don’t come near her, please—­” this last to Chauvenet, who had leaped down and put out his hand to her horse’s bridle.  She had the true horsewoman’s pride in caring for herself and her eyes flashed angrily for a moment at Chauvenet’s proffered aid.  A man might open a door for her or pick up her handkerchief, but to touch her horse was an altogether different business.  The pretty, graceful mare was calm in a moment and arched her neck contentedly under the stroke of Shirley’s hand.

“Beautiful!  The picture is even more perfect, Mademoiselle!”