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"Me!--No, sir. But you spoke as if--"

Through the shifting colonnades of pine, a hundred yards in front of us, came two horsemen in the same blue-gray of the pair beside me. "Whoever he is," I said, "that gray he's riding is his second best, or it's borrowed," for his mount, though good, was no match for him.

I thought I did until I glanced at the superscription: Miss Coralie Rothvelt.

"No."

"A short three miles."

"His name is Oliver."

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