During one of these introspective periods Alaire telephoned Dave Law, arguing to herself that she must learn more about her husband’s connection with the Lewis gang.  Dave arrived even sooner than she had expected.  She made him dine with her, and they spent the evening on the dim-lit gallery.  In the course of their conversation Alaire discovered that Dave, too, had a hidden side of his nature; that he possessed an imagination, and with it a quaint, whimsical, exploratory turn of mind which enabled him to talk interestingly of many things and many places.  On this particular evening he was anything but the man of iron she had known—­until she ventured to speak of Ed. Then he closed up like a trap.  He was almost gruff in his refusal to say a word about her husband.

Because of Ed’s appropriation of the ranch cash, Alaire found it necessary a few days later to go to the bank, and, feeling the need of exercise, she rode her horse Montrose.  When her errands had been attended to, she suddenly decided to call on Paloma Jones.  It was years since she had voluntarily done such a thing; the very impulse surprised her.

Paloma, it happened, was undergoing that peculiar form of feminine torture known as a “fitting”; but insecurely basted, pinned, and tucked as she was, she came flying down to the gate to meet her visitor.

Alaire was introduced to Mrs. Strange, the dressmaker, a large, acidulous brunette, with a mouthful of pins; and then, when Paloma had given herself once more into the seamstress’s hands, the two friends gossiped.

Since Mrs. Strange was the first capable dressmaker who had ever come to Jonesville, Paloma had closed her eyes and plunged with reckless extravagance.  Now the girl insisted upon a general exhibition of her new wardrobe, a sort of grand fashion review, for the edification of her caller, in the course of which she tried on all her dresses.

Paloma was petite and well proportioned, and the gowns were altogether charming.  Alaire was honest in her praise, and Paloma’s response was one of whole-hearted pleasure.  The girl beamed.  Never before had she been so admired, never until this moment had she adored a person as she adored Mrs. Austin, whose every suggestion as to fit and style was acted upon, regardless of Mrs. Strange.

“I don’t know what Dad will say when he gets the bill for these dresses,” Paloma confessed.

“Your father is a mighty queer man,” Mrs. Strange observed.  “I haven’t so much as laid eyes on him.”

Paloma nodded.  “Yes.  And he’s getting more peculiar all the time; I can’t make out what ails him.”

“Where is he now?” asked Alaire.

“Heaven knows!  Out in the barn or under the house.”  Taking advantage of the dressmaker’s momentary absence from the room, Paloma continued in a whisper:  “I wish you’d talk to Dad and see what you make of him.  He’s absolutely—­queer.  Mrs. Strange seems to have a peculiar effect on him.  Why, it’s almost as if—­”