When she did not speak, the cowboy said bitterly, “I noticed that your fine friends did not take quite all your time.  You found an opportunity for a quiet little visit with Honorable Patches.”

Kitty was angry now in earnest.  “You are forgetting yourself, Phil,” she answered with cold dignity.  “And I think that as long as you feel as you do toward my friends, and can speak to me like this about Mr. Patches, you are right in saying that you belong on the range.  Mr. and Mrs. Manning are here, I see.  I am going to dine with them.  Good-by!” She turned away, leaving him standing there.

A moment he waited, as though stunned; then he turned to make his way blindly out of the hotel.

It was nearly morning when Patches was awakened by the sound of someone moving about the kitchen.  A moment he listened, then, rising, went quickly to the kitchen door, thinking to surprise some chance night visitor.

When Phil saw him standing there the foreman for a moment said nothing, but, with the bread knife in one hand and one of Stella’s good loaves in the other, stared at him in blank surprise.  Then the look of surprise changed to an expression of questioning suspicion, and he demanded harshly, “What in hell are you doing here?”

Patches saw that the man was laboring under some great trouble.  Indeed, Phil’s voice and manner were not unlike one under the influence of strong drink.  But Patches knew that Phil never drank.

“I was sleeping,” he answered calmly.  “You woke me, I suppose.  I heard you, and came to see who was prowling around the kitchen at this time of the night; that is all.”

“Oh, that’s all, is it?  But what are you here for?  Why aren’t you in Prescott where you are supposed to be?”

Patches, because he saw Phil’s painful state of mind, exercised admirable self-control.  “I supposed I had a perfect right to come here if I wished.  I did not dream that my presence in this house would be questioned.”

“That depends,” Phil retorted.  “Why did you leave Prescott?”

Patches, still calm, answered gently.  “My reasons for not staying in Prescott are entirely personal, Phil; I do not care to explain just now.”

“Oh, you don’t?  Well, it seems to me, sir, that you have a devil of a lot of personal business that you can’t explain.”

“I am afraid I have,” returned Patches, with his old self-mocking smile.  “But, look here, Phil, you are disturbed and all wrought up about something, or you wouldn’t attack me like this.  You don’t really think me a suspicious character, and you know you don’t.  You are not yourself, old man, and I’ll be hanged if I’ll take anything you say as an insult, until I know that you say it, deliberately, in cold blood.  I’m sorry for your trouble, Phil—­damned sorry—­I would give anything if I could help you.  Perhaps I may be able to prove that later, but just now I think the kindest and wisest thing that I can do for us both is to say good-night.”