The hound limped along beside its master's horse as they plunged into the deep woods of the Owl Hoot Valley. Nor did he show the least sign of wishing to wander from "heel." He followed on the beaten track, stubbornly keeping pace with the horse in spite of the fact of only possessing three legs.

Arrived at the ranch Hervey handed over his horse to Chintz and proceeded into the woods on foot. To-day he meant to move out in a new direction. The valley beyond the Haunted Hill had been done regularly by him; now he was intent upon the hills on the south. Access to this region was obtained by the one other practicable exit from the valley; namely, the Haunted Hill, and then by bearing away to the right. He breasted the steep slopes of the hill and soon came upon the narrow overgrown trail which at some period had been hewn by the early settlers of the district.

Here he tramped along steadily, the hound limping at his heels. He walked slowly, with that long, lazy gait of a man accustomed to walking great distances. He gave little heed to his surroundings as far as the beauties of the place were concerned. He was not the man to regard Nature's handiwork in the light of artistic effects. His great roving eyes were never still; they moved swiftly from side to side, eagerly watching for the indication of game either furred or feathered. It seemed as though this sport was as the breath of life to him. Now and again his gaze would turn upon the hound behind him, and, on these occasions, the movement was evidently the result of some sudden, unpleasant thought, and had nothing to do with the sportsman's watchfulness which makes him seek to discover, in the alert canine attitude, some keener instinct of the presence of game than is possessed by the human being.

Almost without forewarning the road, after rounding an abrupt bend, suddenly opened out on to the graveyard clearing. It was the first time in Hervey's many wanderings in these regions that he had actually come across this obscure little cemetery. For a moment, as he gazed upon it, he hardly realized what it was. Then, as he noted the ruined hut in the middle, the wooden fencing broken and tumbled about the place, and the armless and sadly leaning crosses and the various-shaped slabs of stone which marked the graves, he remembered the weird story his sister and her friend had told, and, advancing, he leant upon one of the fence posts and looked about him curiously.

He stood for some moments quite still. The place was silent with the peaceful calm of a sweltering August day. Hervey's eyes moved from one vaguely outlined grave to another, and unconsciously he counted them. Thirteen graves in all were visible amongst the long grass. Then his eyes turned upon the ruined hut. The roof had fallen in, and broken rafters protruded above the still standing walls of pine logs. The casing of the doorway remained, but the door had gone, and in its place hung a piece of tattered sacking. There was one small window, but this had been boarded over. The building was largely covered with lichen, and weeds had grown out of the mud-filling daubed in between the logs. There was something very desolate but wondrously peaceful about the place.

The master's curiosity seemed to have communicated itself to the hound, for the animal slowly, and with uncertain tread, moved off within the enclosure. Neche's movements were furtive; strangely so. But though Hervey's eyes now followed the dog's actions, it was merely the result of the attraction of the one moving object within the range of his vision, and not with any purpose of his own. In fact, it is doubtful if, at first, the animal's movements conveyed any meaning to the watching man. The moments slipped away and the dog snuffed inquiringly at the various curious objects its wolfish eyes beheld.

It stretched out its neck across one grave and snuffed at the projecting arm of a wooden cross. Then it drew back sharply with its little upstanding ears twitching with a motion of attention and canine uncertainty. Then the wolf head was turned in the direction of its master, and its unblinking gaze was fixed upon his face. The animal stood thus with ears constantly moving, turning this way and that, listening for any strange sound that might chance upon the air. Then with a dignified movement, so expressive of ill-concealed curiosity, it turned away to continue investigations in other directions.

The dog's show of indifference only lasted for a moment. In limping towards the central hut the animal stepped on to the only path which was not overgrown with rank vegetation. The instant its foot touched the sandy soil its head went down until its nose touched the ground. Then followed a loud snuff. The dog's great mane bristled ominously, and a low growl sounded significantly upon the still air. Now Hervey's gaze instantly became one of keen intelligence. His thoughts no longer wandered, but were of the present. He watched the movements of the hound with the profoundest interest.

The dog moved a step or two forward. Its attitude was as though it wished to make no mistake. The snuffing came short, quick and incisive. Then the great head was raised, and the snuffing continued upon the air. Now the nose turned in the direction of the hut, then it turned back to the opposite direction of the path. Hervey remained motionless where he stood, and his thoughts were filled with wondering speculation.

Suddenly the dog darted off down the path, away from the hut. There was something very like the sleuth in its attitude. Nor did it pause until the path terminated at a stone-covered grave. Here the brute's eagerness was displayed to the full. Its excitement was intense. The low growls became more frequent and tense. The bristling mane, so thick and wolfish, fairly quivered in its rigidity. Balancing itself on its one hind foot it tore away at the baked earth around the stone with its huge fore-paws, as though it would tear up the whole grave and lay bare the mouldering bones it contained.

Hervey encouraged the eager hound.

"See—ek 'em," he hissed, in an undertone.

The dog responded, making the earth fly beneath its sharp claws. The animal's excitement had communicated itself to its master, and the man's great eyes glowed strangely. He now moved from his position and came over to the dog's side. He stooped down and examined the place where the dog had been working. He pushed his fingers deep into the hollow which the vigorous claws had made. The next instant he drew them back sharply, and a faint ejaculation escaped him. He straightened himself up and pushed the dog roughly away from the spot.

"Come here, you cur," he muttered. "Come over to the hut."

The dog obeyed with reluctance, and Hervey had to keep a clutch upon the beast's mane to hold him to his side. He half dragged him and half led him up the path until they neared the ruin. Then with a bound the dog leapt forward and rushed in beneath the sacking which covered the doorway, giving tongue to little yelps of eagerness as he went.

Hervey was about to follow, but a strange sound beneath his feet attracted him and made him pause. He listened. The noise went on. It was very faint but quite distinct, and very like the regular fall of a hammer. He called instantly to the dog. Neche's head appeared from beneath the canvas, but he showed unusual signs of disobedience. Instantly, Hervey seized him by the mane, then, subdued and sulky, the animal allowed himself to be dragged from the building. Hervey did not relax his hold until he and the dog were well clear of the place, and were once more buried from view within the depths of the woods.

For a moment, when the hound regained its freedom, it stood still and turned its head back towards the place they had just left, but a threatening command from the man brought him to heel at once, and there was no further bother. It was strange the relations which existed between this curiously-assorted pair. There could be no doubt that Hervey hated the dog, and the dog's regard for its master was of doubtful quality. As a rule, it would fawn in a most servile manner, but its attitude, the moment its master's back was turned, was always morose and even truculent. Hervey had told his sister that the dog was as treacherous as an Indian. But Hervey was not a keen observer, or he would have added, "and as wicked as a rattlesnake."

The two tramped on all that day, but there was little shooting done. Hervey also seemed to have utterly forgotten his intention to shoot the dog. Time after time jack-rabbits got up and dashed off into the woods, but there followed no report of the gun. Prairie chicken in the open glades whirred up from the long succulent grass, but Hervey paid no heed, and when several deer trotted across the man's path, and the gun remained tucked under his arm, it plainly showed the pre-occupied state of his mind.

The truth was that Hervey was thinking with a profundity that implied something which must very nearly affect his personal interests. And these personal interests, at the moment, centred round George Iredale and—the graveyard. He had discredited the story the girls had told as he would discredit anything which pertained to the supernatural. But now he had learned something which put an entirely different meaning to the adventures the two girls had related. It is easy enough to mystify the simple human mind, but dogs' instincts are purely practical, and, as Hervey argued, ghosts do not leave a hot scent. Neche had lit upon a hot scent. At first the man had been doubtful as to what that scent was. Graveyards on the prairie are places favoured by the hungry coyote, and he had been inclined to believe that such was the trail which the dog had discovered. But his own investigations had suggested something different.

The grave which the dog had attacked so furiously was no ordinary grave, for, in thrusting his hand into the hole the dog had made at the edge, he had found that beneath the stone was a cavity. Then had come the recollection of the faint pounding he had distinctly heard beneath the ground. And instantly the story the girls had related assumed a human aspect. Without hesitation he told himself that they had not seen spectres marching in procession through the mysterious graveyard, but real, live, human beings. What, he asked himself, was the meaning of it? What strange occupation was George Iredale's in this lonely valley? Where was Iredale now? Where did he go to when he moved out of the district on business, and what was the nature of the business? To Hervey it was no great step from questions of this sort to a general answer. And, when he reviewed the isolation, the secret nightly doings, the unsuitability of the district to cattle-raising, and the great wealth of the owner, all made since his sojourn in the country, it was no difficult task for his thoughts to suggest some felonious undertaking. But the one question for which he could find no reasonable reply was that which asked the nature of the doings which seemed to go on at night in the shadow of those dense forests.

He tramped on heedless of the passing time. His discovery had roused him to a pitch of excitement which swayed his thoughts in the direction they would naturally incline. In what manner could he turn his discovery to account? His sense of proportion quickly balanced his ideas. He must at all costs learn the secret of the graveyard, and if it was, as he believed, some "crooked" dealings upon which Iredale was engaged, the rest would be easy. All he wanted was money, and the owner of Lonely Ranch had plenty and to spare.

The sun was quite low over the horizon when he at length turned his steps again in the direction of the ranch. He was hungry; he had eaten nothing since breakfast.

Hervey was not the man to be disturbed by any scruples with regard to the hospitality of the owner of Lonely Ranch. He partook of the ample supper which Chintz had prepared for him without the slightest compunction. And when it was finished he idled the time away smoking one of Iredale's best cigars with the utmost enjoyment. He watched the shadows grow and deepen. He waited until the blue vault of the sky had changed its hue to the indescribable shadow which follows in the wake of the daylight, and the sparkling diamonds of night shone out upon its surface; then he called for his horse and set out ostensibly for Loon Dyke.

He rode away down the valley until he was clear of the woods; then, leaving the prairie trail, he turned away to the right, and, describing a wide semi-circle, doubled back into the woods again, taking a course which lay to the eastwards, parallel to the valley of the ranch. Now he quickened his pace, and the hound, limping laboriously at his horse's heels, had difficulty in keeping up with him. Nor did he draw rein until he reached the wide hollow which backed the graveyard hill. Here, however, he dismounted, and secured his horse to a tree. Then he removed the reins from his horse's bridle, and proceeded to secure the hound in an adjacent position. The night had quite closed in and the darkness of the woods was profound when he started to make his way up the side of the hill in the direction of the graveyard.

Hervey paused for nothing. His mind was clearly made up. Whatever weakness may have been his there was none to be traced in his actions now. He saw ahead of him the possibilities of furthering his own interests, and he revelled in the thought of George Iredale's wealth. The despicable methods he was adopting troubled him not in the least. Iredale should pay dearly if his work partook of the nature of crime.

Hervey entertained no friendship for any one. The greed of gold was his ruling passion. He cared nothing from whom it was obtained, or by what means. If things were as he believed them to be, then was this a truly golden opportunity. And he would bleed Iredale to the very limits of his resources.

He reached the outskirts of the clearing, but he did not leave the obscurity of the forest. The black recesses served him for a hiding-place from which he could obtain a perfect view of the ghostly enclosure. The tumbled hut and the weirdly-outlined graves with their crowning monuments showed up distinctly in the starlight. And he settled himself for a long vigil.

An hour passed without result. It was weary work, this waiting. He dared not move about, for at every movement of his feet upon the ground the rotting vegetation crunched and crackled loudly in the profundity of silence. The man's patience, however, was long-enduring under such circumstances. He told himself that the result would more than recompense him for the trouble. He had everything to gain, and the task appealed to him. Two hours passed and still not a sound broke the awful stillness. Then came the first sign. Suddenly a bright light shone out down in the valley in the direction where Iredale's house stood. It gleamed luridly, almost red, in its depth of yellow. Hervey held his breath, so deep was his excitement and the feeling of anticipation.

The sudden appearance of the light was the signal for further demonstration. The prolonged screech of an owl replied to it. The screech, so shrill and ear-piercing, gave the watcher such a nerve-racking moment as to almost urge him to beat a hasty retreat. But the cry died away, and, as the echoes grew fainter and eventually became silent, he recovered himself. A moment passed and another cry split the air, only this time it came from across the valley on the opposite heights. Hervey stood with ears straining. He had detected something curious in the sound of those cries. Then as the second died away a single word muttered below his breath voiced his discovery.

"Human!" he said to himself, and a feeling of unholy joy swept over him, and he drew a pistol from his pocket and his hand gripped its butt significantly.

His eyes were still turned in the direction of the house where the light was burning when a scraping noise suddenly drew his attention to the graveyard before him. The scraping continued, and sounded like the grinding of an axe upon a whetstone. It distinctly came from one of the graves, and, for a moment, he experienced a shudder of superstitious fear. The next moment he suppressed a chuckle as he realized that the sound came from the grave at the side of which Neche had made such a demonstration that morning. He gazed in the direction, his great eyes burning with the lurid fires of pent-up excitement and speculation. What was the secret he was about to learn? He longed to draw closer to the spot, but he knew that he dared not move.

Suddenly a vague shadow loomed up from amongst the grass which grew so rankly in the cemetery. Up, up it rose, black even against the background of utter darkness in which the forest was bathed. Hervey leaned forward, his eyes straining and every nerve tense-drawn. What was this—thing?

The shadow paused. Then it rose higher. It seemed to suddenly straighten up, and Hervey permitted a deep breath to escape him. The black figure had assumed the shape of a man, and the form moved forward towards the log dead-house. Then the waiting man saw that other figures were following the first in rapid succession. Each figure was bearing its burden. Some seemed to be carrying bundles, some carried that which appeared to be boxes, and others carried small square packages. As Hervey's eyes became used to the strange scene he was able to distinguish something of the habiliments of these denizens of the grave. He noted the long, dark, smock-shaped garment each figure wore, and, after a while, in the starlight, he was able to note that most of them wore on their heads little skull-caps. Then a muttered exclamation broke from his lips, and in his tone was a world of satisfaction.

"Chinese!" he whispered. Then: "Traffic in yellow, by all that's holy!"



CHAPTER XII

THE BREAKING OF THE STORM

The master of Lonely Ranch was seated before the table in his unpretentious sitting-room. Before him were piled a number of open account-books, and books containing matters relating to the business of his ranch.

He was not looking at them now, but sat gazing at the blank wall in front of him with thoughtful, introspective eyes. His chin was resting upon his clenched hands, and his elbows were propped upon the table. He was sitting with his shirt-sleeves rolled up above his elbows, for the day was hot and the air was close and heavy. On one hand the window was wide open, but no jarring sounds came in to disturb the thinker. The door on the other side was also open wide. George Iredale showed no desire for secrecy. His attitude was that of a man who feels himself to be perfectly safe-guarded against any sort of surprise. Thus he sat in the quiet of the oppressive heat thinking of many things which chiefly concerned his life in the valley of Owl Hoot.

He had been going over the accounts which represented his fifteen years of labour in that quiet corner of the great Dominion, and the perusal had given him a world of satisfaction. Fifteen years ago he had first settled in the valley. He had acquired the land for a mere song; for no one would look at the region of Owl Hoot as a district suitable either for stock-raising or for the cultivation of grain. But he had seen possibilities in the place—possibilities which had since been realized even beyond his expectations. His sense of humour was tickled as he thought of the cattle he had first brought to the ranch—a herd of old cows which he had picked up cheap somewhere out West at the foot of the Rockies. He almost laughed aloud as he thought of the way in which he had fostered and added to the weird, stupid legends of the place, and how he had never failed to urge the undesirability of his neighbourhood for any sort of agriculture. And thus for fifteen years he had kept the surrounding country clear of inquisitive settlers. Life had been very pleasant, quiet, monotonous, and profitable for him, and, as he thought of it all, his eyes drooped again to his books before him, and he gazed upon a sea of entries in a long, thick, narrow volume which bore on the cover the legend—

OPIUM.

Yes, he never attempted to disguise from himself the nature of his calling. He plastered neither himself nor his trade with thick coatings of whitewash. He knew what he was, and faced the offensive title with perfect equanimity. He was a smuggler, probably the largest operator in the illicit traffic of opium smuggling, and the most successful importer of Chinese along the whole extent of the American border. He knew that the penitentiary was yearning for him; and he knew that every moment of his life was shadowed by the threat of penal servitude. And in the meantime he was storing up his wealth, not in driblets, dependent upon the seasons for their extent, but in huge sums which were proportionate to the risks he was prepared to run.

And his risks had been many, and his escapes narrow and frequent. But he had hitherto evaded the law, and now the time had come when he intended to throw it all up—to blot out at one sweep the traces of those fifteen prosperous years, and settle down to enjoy the proceeds of his toil.

It was only after much thought and after months of deliberation that he had arrived at this decision. For this man revelled in his calling with an enthusiasm which was worthy of an honest object. He was not a man whose natural inclinations leant towards law-breaking; far from it. Outside of his trade he lived a cleaner life than many a so-called law-abiding citizen. The risks he ran, the excitement of contraband trade had a fatal fascination which was as the breath of life to him; a fascination which, with all his strength of mind in every other direction, he was as powerless to resist as were the consumers powerless to resist the fascinations of the drug he purveyed.

But now he stood face to face with a contingency he had never taken into his considerations. He had fallen a victim to man's passion for a woman; and he had been forced to a choice between the two things. Either he must renounce all thoughts of Prudence Malling, or he must marry her, and break from all his old associations. To a man of Iredale's disposition the two things were quite incompatible. The steady growth of his love for this girl, a love which absorbed all that was best in his deep, strong nature, had weighed heavily in the balance; and, reluctant though the master of Lonely Ranch was to sever himself from the traffic which had afforded him so much wealth, and so many years of real, living moments, his decision had been taken with calm deliberation; the fiat had gone forth. Henceforth the traffic in yellow would know him no more.

He rose from his seat, and crossing the room stood gazing out of the open window. Finally his eyes were turned up towards the heavy banking of storm-clouds which hovered low over the valley.

Already the greater portion of his plans had been carefully laid. They had been costly for many reasons. His agents were men who required to be dealt with liberally. However, everything had been satisfactorily settled. Now only remained the disposal of the ranch. This was rather a delicate matter for obvious reasons. He wished to effectually obliterate all traces of the traffic he had carried on there.

He went back to the table and picked up an official-looking letter. It was a communication from Robb Chillingwood, written on the municipal notepaper of Ainsley.

He read the letter carefully through.

"MY DEAR MR. IREDALE,"

"There is a man named Gordon Duffield stopping at the hotel here, who has lately arrived from Scotland. I have effected the sale of the Dominion Ranch—you know, the German, Grieg's, old place—to him. He is a man of considerable means, and is going in largely for stock-raising. He has commissioned me to buy something like five thousand head of cows and two-year-old steers for him. His bulls he brought out with him. You will understand the difficulty I shall have in obtaining such a bunch of suitable animals; and I thought you might have some surplus stock that you wish to dispose of at a reasonable price. You might let me know by return if such is the case, always bearing in mind when you make your quotations that the gentleman hails from old Scotia. There is shortly to be a great boom in emigration from both the old country and the States, and I am now combining the business of land agent with my other duties, and I find it a paying concern. Let me know about the cattle at your earliest convenience.

"Yours truly, "ROBB CHILLINGWOOD."

Iredale smiled as he read the letter over.

"Comes at an opportune moment," he said to himself. "Surplus stock, eh? Well, I think I can offer him all the stock he needs at a price which will meet with the approval of even a canny Scot. I'll write him at once."

He seated himself at his table and wrote a long letter asking Chillingwood to come out and see him, and, at the same time, offering to dispose of the stock of Lonely Ranch. He sealed the letter, and then returned his account-books to their hiding-place behind the bookcase. Then he went to the door and summoned his head man.

In spite of the habit of years, Iredale was not without a strong sense of relief as he reviewed the progress of the disestablishment of the ranch. He remembered how narrowly he had escaped from Leslie Grey less than a year ago, and now that he had begun to burn his boats he was eager to get through with the process.

The ferret-faced Chintz framed himself in the doorway.

"My horse!" demanded his master. "And, Chintz, I want you to take this letter to Lakeville and post it with your own hands. You understand?"

The little man nodded his head.

"Good!" Iredale paused thoughtfully. "Chintz," he went on a moment later, "we've finished with opium. We retire into private life from now out—you and I. We are going to leave Owl Hoot. How does that suit you?"

The little man cheerfully nodded, and twisted his face into a squinting grimace intended for a pleasant smile. Then his eyebrows went up inquiringly. Iredale took his meaning at once.

"I don't know where we are going as yet. But you'll go with me. I want you to remain my 'head man.'"

Chintz nodded. There could be no doubt from his expression that he was devoted to his master.

"Right. Send my horse round at once. I am going to Loon Dyke, and shall be back for supper."

The man departed, and the rancher prepared for his ride.

When George Iredale set out for Loon Dyke the valley was shrouded in the gloom of coming storm. But he knew the peculiarities of the climate too well to be alarmed. The storm, he judged, would not break until nearly sundown, and then it would only be short and sharp. In the meantime he would have reached the farm. There was a curious, unconscious rapidity in his way of settling up his affairs. It was as though some strange power were urging him to haste. This may have been the result of the man's character, for he was of a strikingly vigorous nature. He had put the machinery in motion, and now he primed it with the oil of eager desire to see the work swiftly carried out.

As his horse galloped over the prairie—he took the direct route of the crow's flight—his thoughts centred upon the object of his visit. He saw nothing of the pleasant fields and pastures through which his journey took him. The threat of coming storm was nothing to him. For all heed he paid to it the sky might have been of a tropical blue. The ruffling prairie chicken rose lazily in their coveys, with their crops well filled with the gleanings of the harvested wheat fields, but he scarcely even saw them. All he saw was the sweet, dark face of the girl to whom he intended to put the question which women most love to hear; whether it be put by the man of their choice or by some one for whom they care not a cent. He had always longed for this day to come, but, until now, had never seen how such could ever dawn for him. It had been a great wrench to sever himself from the past, but his decision once taken his heart was filled with thankfulness, and never had he felt so free from care as now. He realized all that a lover may realize of his own unworthiness, but he allowed himself no extravagances of thought in this direction. Prudence was a good woman, he knew, and he intended, if Fate so willed, to devote the rest of his life to her happiness. As he drew near to his destination his heart beat a shade faster, and doubts began to assail him. He found himself speculating upon his chances of success. He believed that the daughter of Hephzibah Malling regarded him with favour, but nothing had gone before to give him any clue to her maiden feelings. He wondered doubtfully, and, in proportion, his nervousness increased.

Out upon the trail, at a distance, he saw a horseman riding away from the farm; he did not even trouble about the rider's identity. The strong, reckless nature, concealed beneath his quiet exterior, urged him on to learn his fate. Nothing mattered to him now but his sentence as pronounced by the child of the prairie whose love he sought.

There were three occupants of the sitting-room at the farm. Prudence and Alice Gordon were at the table, which was covered by a litter of tweed dress material and paper patterns. Prudence was struggling with a maze of skirt-folds, under which a sewing-machine was almost buried. Alice was cutting and pinning and basting seams at the other end of the table. Sarah Gurridge was standing beside the open window watching the rising of the storm.

Conversation came spasmodically. The girls were intent upon their work.

"It's all very well to have new dresses," said Prudence, with an impatient tug at the material on which the machine was operating, "but I'm afraid half the pleasure of them is absorbed by the process of 'making.' Oh, these endless seams! And I don't believe a single one of them is straight. I feel quite hopeless."

"Cheer up, Prue," said Alice, without looking up. She herself was endeavouring to set a wristband pattern upon a piece of stuff so that she could get the two bands out of barely enough cloth for one. "You should use more dash when working a machine. When you are turning it, imagine you are driving a 'through mail' to the coast and have to make up time. The seams will come all right."

"Yes; and break cotton and needles, and—and land the engine over the side of a cut-bank, or run down a gang of plate-layers or something. There now, I've run clean off the cloth. I wish you wouldn't talk so much."

The two girls laughed whilst they joined efforts in righting the catastrophe.

"Isn't it getting dark?" said Alice, when Prudence had once more settled to work.

Sarah spoke without turning from the window.

"The storm's banking, child. The lightning is already flashing over Owl Hoot way. Hervey will only just escape it."

"What did he want to go over to the ranch for?" asked Prudence. "He never seems to go anywhere else now. I should think Mr. Iredale will get sick of having him always round."

"My dear," observed Sarah, with unction, "when two men enjoy destroying the harmless life which the good God has set upon the prairie, they never tire of one another's society. Men who would disdain to black a pair of boots would not hesitate to crawl about in the mud and damp reeds of a swamp at daybreak to slaughter a few innocent ducks. There is a bond amongst sportsmen which is stronger than all the vows made at any altar. Hervey's delight in destroying life is almost inhuman. I trust he never shoots sitting game."

"I should hope not," said Prudence. "I would never own him as a brother if he did. Hello, Neche," as the door was pushed slowly open and the great husky limped heavily into the room. The animal looked round him in a dignified, unblinking way, and then came over to Prudence's side and leisurely curled himself up on the skirt of her dress. "Say, old boy," she added, looking down at the recumbent form, "if mother comes in and finds you here you'll leave the room hurriedly."

Alice laid her scissors down and looked over at her friend.

"Hervey seems quieter than ever lately. He won't even take the trouble to quarrel."

"And a good thing too," said Prudence shortly.

Sarah turned and surveyed the two girls for a moment, an amused expression was in her dreamy eyes. Then she turned back to the window as the first distant growl of the coming storm made itself heard.

"Hervey only quarrels when his mind is in a state of stagnation. The mind of a man is very like a pool of water. Let it stand, and it corrodes with matter which throws off offensive odours. The longer it stands the worse state it gets into. Set the water in motion, turn it into a running stream, and it at once cleanses itself. Hervey's mind has been lately set in motion. I have noticed the change."

"He has certainly become less offensive of late," said Alice. "I wonder what has changed him."

"Food for mental occupation," said Sarah.

"'A life monotonous, unrelieved, breeds selfish discontent, Dead'ning a mind to lofty thought for which by nature meant.'"

Prudence brought the machine to a standstill, and propping one elbow upon the table rested her chin upon her hand.

"I believe you are right, Aunt Sarah," she said slowly. "Hervey's certainly found something which has set him thinking. I rather fancy I know—or can guess—what it is that has roused him."

The old lady turned from the window and gazed curiously at her pupil. She was keenly interested. The recreation of her life was the observation of her kind. Her logic and philosophy may not always have been sound, but she never failed to arrive somewhere in the region of the truth. The recent change in Hervey had puzzled her.

"He asked me yesterday to let him see that notice in the Free Press which appeared when Leslie was murdered," Prudence went on. "He also asked me what Leslie's dying words were. He insisted on the exact words."

"The storm will break soon," observed Sarah. She had turned away to the window.

"I wonder," said Alice; "perhaps he has discovered——" She broke off meaningly.

"That's what I think," said Prudence.

Sarah shook her head; but what she meant to convey was uncertain, for she had her back turned and she said nothing at the moment. Prudence restarted her machine and Alice reluctantly bent over her patterns. Sarah moved back from the window. She saw a horseman galloping over the prairie in the direction of the house. She had recognized Iredale.

"Girls," she said, her soft eyes turning on Prudence's bent head, "I really think some one should be helping the mother. This is baking day." Prudence looked up with an expression of contrition. "No—no, not you, child. You stay here and get on with your fandangles and dressmaking. I'll go and help her."

Without waiting for a reply she darted off. She had no intention of having her innocent little scheme upset. The moment after her departure the clatter of horse's hoofs came in through the open window. Alice, looking up, saw Iredale dismounting from his horse. She jumped up to go to the front door.

"Here's Mr. Iredale!" she exclaimed. Then: "So he's returned home. I'm so glad. One scarcely knows the place without him."

She dashed out to meet him, and, a moment later, returned ushering him in.

"Mr. George Iredale," she announced, with mock ceremony. Then she stood aside to allow him to pass, bowing low as he entered the room. She stood for a moment smiling upon the burly figure. She noted how the plain features lit up at the sight of the girl bending over the sewing-machine. Then she gave herself an obvious cue.

"I'll go and call mother Hephzy," she said, and retreated hastily to the bake-house.

Iredale moved over to where Prudence was sitting She had ceased work to greet him, but she did not rise from the table. Neche surveyed the intruder, grunted and closed his eyes again. Prudence was half inclined to resent Alice's sudden departure. Alice was in her confidence; she knew her feelings as regarded George Iredale. She considered her friend's action was unkind.

"You mustn't let me disturb you, Prudence," Iredale said in his low, pleasant voice. "What is this"—fingering the material—"a new fall dress? Wonderful how you can cope with the intricacies of the manufacture of such things. It would be a very sorry day for me if I were left to cut my own coats." He laughed nervously.

Prudence detected an unusual eagerness in his voice, and something warned her that this man had come over that afternoon to see her alone. She joined in the laugh, but her eyes remained quite serious.

"When did you come back from town?" she asked, after a pause.

"I haven't been to town. I've been across the border. My business took me into Minnesota."

"Oh, I thought you had been to Winnipeg." She stooped and caressed the great dog at her feet.

Iredale shook his head. A vivid flash of lightning shot across the open window, and a crash of thunder followed it immediately. The storm was breaking at last.

"I'll close the window." Iredale moved across the room to do so. Prudence looked after him. When he returned he sat himself in Alice's chair, having brought it nearer to the machine. Then followed a long silence while the machine rattled down a seam. The man watched the nimble fingers intently as they guided the material under the needle. The bent head prevented him seeing more than the barest outline of the girl's cheek, but he seemed content. Now that the moment had arrived for him to speak, he was quite master of himself.

"Prudence," he began, at last, "I am giving up my ranch. I have been making the necessary arrangements. I have done with money-making."

"Really." The girl looked up sharply, then down again at her work. She had encountered the steady gaze of the man's earnest eyes. "Are you going to—to leave us?" She was conscious of the lameness of her question.

"I don't quite know. That depends largely upon circumstances. I am certainly about to seek pleasant places, but I cannot tell yet where those pleasant places will be found. Perhaps you will help me."

"How?" The seam swerved out into a great bow, and Prudence was forced to go back over it.

"Easily enough, if you will."

The girl did not answer, but busied herself with the manipulation of her machine. Her face had paled, and her heart was thumping in great pulsations. Iredale went on. He had assumed his characteristic composure. What fire burned beneath his calm exterior, it would have needed the discerning eyes of Sarah Gurridge to detect, for, beyond the occasional flashing of his quiet grey eyes, there was little or no outward sign.

"I have known you for a good many years, child; years which have helped to put a few grey hairs on my head, it is true, but still years which have taught me something which I never dreamed of learning out here on the prairie. They have taught me that such a thing as love exists for every man on this earth, and that somewhere in this world there is a woman who can inspire him with feelings which make the pettinesses of his own solitary existence seem very small indeed. I have learned that man was not made to live alone, but that a certain woman must share his life with him, or that life is an utterly worthless thing. I have learned that there is but one woman in the world who can help me to the better, loftier aspirations of man, and that woman is—you, Prudence."

The girl had ceased to work, and was staring straight in front of her out of the window, where the vivid lightning was now flashing incessantly. As Iredale pronounced the last words she shook her head slowly—almost helplessly. The man had leaned forward in his chair, and his elbows rested on his parted knees, and his hands were tightly clasped.

"Don't shake your head, dear," he went on, with persuasive earnestness. "Hear me out first, and then you shall give me your decision. I know I am much older than you, but surely that disparity need not stand in our way. I dare say I have many more years of life yet left than lots of younger men. Besides, I am rich—very rich. With me you can live the life you choose. If you wish to stay here on the prairie, why, you shall have the most perfect farm that money can buy; if, on the other hand, you choose to see the world, you only have to say the word. Prudence, I know I am not a very attractive man. I have little to recommend me, and my life has not always been spent as perhaps it should have been; but I love you very dearly, and my future shall be devoted to your happiness. Will you be my wife?"

There was a deafening crash of thunder which seemed to come from directly overhead. The dog started up with a growl. Then he stood looking up into the girl's face. The dying reverberations slowly rolled away and left the room in deathly silence. The serious light in the girl's eyes was augmented by the decided set of her mouth. She kept her face studiously turned from Iredale, who, observing with all the intuition of a man in deadly earnest, read in her expression something of what his answer was to be.

"Can you not—do you not care for me sufficiently?"

The words contained such a world of appeal that Prudence felt herself forced to turn in his direction. She now looked squarely into his eyes, nor was there the faintest suspicion of embarrassment in her manner. The moment had come when she must choose between herself and her self-imposed duty. She knew that she loved Iredale, but—she checked something which sounded very like a sigh. She had listened to the precepts of Sarah Gurridge all her life, and, in consequence, she had learned to regard her duty before all things. She now conceived she had a great duty to perform. She felt so helpless—so feeble in the matter; but the voice of conscience held her to her mistaken course.

"I believe I love you; I am sure I care for you very, very much, but——"

"Then you will marry me." The man reached out to take her hand, but she drew it back. His eager eyes shone in the stormy darkness in which the room was bathed.

She shook her head.

"When Leslie Grey was murdered I made a vow that I would not rest until the murderer was brought to justice. My vow is unfulfilled. I could not marry you and be happy while this is so. Do you know what marriage with you would mean? Simply that I should make no effort to fulfil my vow to the dead. I cannot marry you now."

Iredale was staggered by the woeful wrong-mindedness under which he considered she was labouring. For a moment he could scarcely find words to express himself.

"But—but surely, child, you are not going to let this phantom of duty come between us? Oh, you can never do such a thing! Besides, we would work together; we would not leave a stone unturned to discover the wretch who did him to death——"

He broke off. Prudence answered swiftly, and the set of her face seemed to grow harder as she felt the difficulty of abiding by her resolve.

"This is no phantom of duty, George. It is very much a reality. I cannot marry you—until—until——"

Iredale was smiling now. The shock of the girl's strange decision had passed. He saw something of the motive underlying it. Her sense of duty seemed to have warped her judgment, and, with quiet firmness, he meant to set it aside.

"And this is the only reason for refusing me?" he asked. He had become serious again; he seemed merely to be seeking assurance.

"Yes. Oh, George, can't you see how it is?" She gazed appealingly into his face. And the man had to keep a very tight hold upon his feelings.

"I am afraid I am a little dense, child," he said gravely.

"I must make you understand," Prudence went on with nervous haste. Her conscience urged her forward, whilst her love prompted her to set aside all recollection of the dead and to bask in the love this man offered her. She was a simple, womanly soul, trying with all the strength of her honest purpose to resist the dictates of her love, and to do that which seemed right in her own eyes. The task she had set herself had seemed easy when she had spoken of it to Alice, but now in the face of this man's love, in the face of her own self-realization, it seemed beyond her strength. "Listen to me, and you will see for yourself that I must not marry you—yet. I believed that I loved Leslie Grey truly, fondly. As I look back now I am sure I did. I was never happy but when I was with him. He seemed so strong and resolute. I never had a moment in which to doubt myself. Then, when he died, the agony I suffered was something too dreadful to contemplate. As he lay on the little bed with his life slowly ebbing, and I watched him dying by inches, I was filled with such horror and despair that I thought surely I should go mad. Then it dawned on me that he had been murdered, and my anguish turned to a dreadful feeling of rage and longing to avenge him. Never in my life did I experience such terrible passion as at that moment. I believe at the time I really was mad. The one thought in my mind was, 'Who—who has done this thing?' Then Leslie died, and in his death agony he spoke and told me, as well as his poor gasping faculties could tell me, what had happened. His words were unintelligible to every one except me. And those words formed a clue to the assassin's identity. By his bedside I swore to avenge him. Never would I rest until my oath was carried out. As you know, after that I became ill and went away. And, oh, the shame of it, during those months of rest and illness I forgot Leslie Grey, I forgot my vow. I forgot everything that claimed my duty. Think of it—the shame, the shallow heartlessness, the fickle nature which is mine. I, who had loved him as I believed no girl had ever loved, had forgotten him as though he had never come into my life."

Iredale nodded comprehensively as the girl paused.

"Then you came into my life," Prudence went on. Her face was turned towards the window now, outside of which she saw the tongues of lightning playing across the sky. "Time went on, and slowly something crept into my heart which made me realize my shortcomings. Gradually my conduct was revealed to me in its true colours, and I saw myself as I really was—a heartless, worthless creature, so despicable, even to myself, as to make me shudder when I contemplated the future. Let me be honest now, at least. I knew that I loved you, George, that is"—bitterly—"as far as I was capable of love; but what sort of affection was mine to give to anybody? I could not trust myself—I despised myself. My conscience cried out. Leslie's unavenged death still remained. My vow was still unfulfilled. Knowing this, how could I believe in this new love which had come to me? No, I could not. And it was then that I saw what I must do. Before I could ever dream of love I must redeem the pledge I made at Leslie's deathbed. That alone could restore my faith in myself. I know that it is almost impossible to convey to you all that I have thought upon the matter; but, believe me, I can never marry while Leslie remains unavenged."

Tears stood in the girl's eyes as she finished up her curiously twisted self-accusations. And the sincerity of her words was not to be doubted for a moment. Iredale had listened wonderingly, and he marvelled to himself at the wonders of perspective in a woman's mind.

"And you are prepared to undertake the matter—alone?"

"Mother is helping me—it costs money."

"Just so. But would not a man's help be of greater importance than your mother's? Don't you think that your husband's assistance might help you far more? That it might be able to lighten the burden of this self-imposed labour. Tut, tut, child. Because of your vow it should not deter you from marriage, especially when your husband is not only ready, but most willing to assist you in clearing up the mystery, and avenging Leslie Grey. As regards the quality"—with a quiet smile—"of your regard, well, come, you love me, little girl, on your own confession, and if you have no graver scruples than you have offered, then you must—marry me."

Iredale leant forward and took the girl's two hands in his. This time she made no resistance. She allowed them to rest in his broad palms, and, in spite of all her protests, felt ineffably happy.

At last she drew them away and shook her head weakly.

"No, it is no good, George. You must not be burdened with my undertaking. I cannot consent to such a thing. It is only your generosity and kindness which make you look at the matter so lightly. You would regret your decision later on, and then——No, mother and I will see the matter through. We have already secured the services of the smartest detective in Winnipeg, and he is working upon the only clue we possess."

"But I insist," said Iredale, with a smile which made his plain features almost handsome. "And, Prue, I am going to tell your mother that you have engaged yourself to me, and that I am a new recruit, fortune as well, in the work. No—" holding up his hand as the girl was about to protest again—"no objections, sweetheart. And, before we go further, tell me of this clue."

Prudence smiled happily. She had done her duty; she had laid bare her heart to this man. She had spared herself in no way. She had let him see, she told herself, the sort of girl she was. He still cared for her; he still wished to marry her. She bowed her will to his quiet decision.

"It is not much to go upon, but, as Deane, that is the detective, says, it is a decided clue."

She rose from her seat and walked over to a small work-table. At that moment the house shook to its very foundations with a dreadful crash of thunder. Neche, who had moved with her, leapt fiercely at the window as though flying at some invisible enemy. The girl called him to her side, then she stood trembling. Flash after flash of lightning blazed in the heavens, and she covered her eyes with her hands, whilst the thunder seemed as though it would rend the earth from end to end. Iredale was at her side in an instant, and his arm was about her, and he drew her head upon his shoulder. Instantly her nerve was restored, and, as the noise passed, she quietly released herself. Then, stooping, she opened the drawer of the table and produced a torn copy of the Winnipeg Free Press. She held out the paper and pointed to the personal column.

"See," she said, with her index finger upon the second line of the column. "'Yellow booming—slump in Grey.' Those who are responsible for that message, whatever it may mean, are also responsible for Leslie's death."

Iredale's eyes were fixed with a terrible fascination upon the print. A breath escaped him which sounded almost like a gasp. His hands clenched at his sides, and he stood like one turned into stone.

"How—how do you know this?" he asked, in a tense, hoarse voice.

"Leslie said so with his last dying breath."

There came no answering word to the girl's statement. Iredale did not move. His eyes were still upon the paper. The silence of death reigned in the room. Even the storm seemed suddenly to have ceased; only was there the incessant swish of the torrential rain outside.

"That is the clue poor Leslie gave me."

"Ah!"

"What do you think?"

"You must give me time to think."

Iredale's mouth was parched. His voice sounded strange in his own ears. For the moment he could scarcely realize his position. An overwhelming horror was upon him. Suddenly he turned.

"What is the date of that paper?"

"A few days before Leslie's death. But this notice has appeared many times since—which will make our task the easier."

"Yes, it will make our task the easier."

Another pause, which was protracted until the silence could almost be felt. Then Prudence spoke.

"You will stay to tea?"

Iredale pulled himself together.

"No, I think not. The storm has passed, the rain is ceasing. I had better hurry back home. It will come back on us—the storm, I mean."

The girl looked out of the window.

"Yes, I think it will. Oh, I forgot to tell you. Hervey went over to see you this afternoon."

Iredale's eyes turned sharply upon the girl.

"Ah, yes, I will go at once. I will call to-morrow and see Mrs. Malling. Good-bye."

He turned away and abruptly left the room. Prudence looked after him. She saw him pass out; she saw him go out by the front door and hurry down the little path which bisected the front garden. She saw him go round to the stables, and he seemed not to heed the rain which was still falling lightly. But it was not until she saw him riding away down the trail that she realized the suddenness of his departure and the fact that he hadn't even attempted to kiss her.

Iredale's horse received little consideration at its master's hands on that homeward journey. The animal was ridden almost at racing pace over the long ten miles of country. And all the way home the words the girl had spoken were running in his ears with maddening insistence—

"And when we find the author of those words we find his murderer."

She had virtually accused him of murder. For he alone was the author of those words in the paper. Truly his sins were finding him out.



CHAPTER XIII

BLACKMAIL

As Hervey entered the valley of the ranch he listened for the warning owl cries. To-day, however, there were none. He smiled to himself as he noted the fact, for he knew their origin; he knew their object. He understood that these cries were the alarm of sentries stationed at certain points to warn those at the ranch of the approach of strangers. He knew, too, that they were used as signals for other things. And he admired the ingenuity of Iredale in thus turning the natural features of the valley to his own uses. Rain was beginning to fall in great drops, and the thunder of the rising storm had already made itself heard. He urged his horse forward.

Few men can embark on a mission of hazard or roguery without some feelings of trepidation. And Hervey was no exception to the rule. He experienced a feeling of pleasurable excitement and anticipation. There was sufficient uncertainty in his mission to make him think hard and review his powers of attack with great regard for detail. There must be no loophole of escape for his victim.

On the whole he was well satisfied. But he was not unprepared for failure. During his acquaintance with Iredale he had learned that the master of Lonely Ranch was not easily trifled with, neither was he the man to accept a tight situation without making a hot fight for it. It was just these things which gave Hervey the gentle qualms of excitement as he meditated upon the object of his journey. He thought of the large sums of money he had borrowed from this man, and the ease with which they had been obtained. He remembered the kindly ways and gentle manner of this reserved man, and somehow he could not get away from the thought of the velvet glove.

But even as he thought of it he laughed. There was no getting away from the facts he possessed, and if it came to anything in the shape of physical resistance, well, he was not unprepared. There was a comfortable feeling about the heavy jolt of the six-chambered "lawyer" in his pocket.

The valley seemed much more lonely than usual. The horrid screeching of the watchful sentries would almost have been welcome to him. The forest was so dark and still. Even the falling raindrops and the deep rolling thunder had no power to give the place any suggestion of life. There was a mournful tone over everything that caused the rider to glance about him furtively, and wish for a gleam of the prairie sunlight.

At length he drew up at the house. There was no one about. A few cattle were calmly reposing in the corrals. There was not even the sharp bark of a dog to announce his arrival. As Hervey drew up he looked to see Iredale come to the door, for he knew the rancher had returned from his wanderings; but the front door remained shut, and, although the window of the sitting-room was wide open, there was no sign of any occupant within the room. He dismounted and stood thinking for a moment. Then he raised his voice and called to Chintz.

His summons was repeated before the man's ferret face appeared round a corner of the building. The little fellow advanced with no show of alacrity. Iredale had told him nothing about any expected visitor. He was not quite sure what to do.

By dint of many questions and replies, which took the form of nods and shakes of the head on the part of Chintz, Hervey learnt that Iredale had gone over to Loon Dyke, but that he would be back to supper.

"Then I'll wait for him," he said decidedly. "You can take my horse. I'll go inside."

The head man took the horse reluctantly and Hervey passed into the house.

For a long time he stood at the open window watching the storm. How it raged over the valley! The rain came down in one steady, hissing deluge, and the hills echoed and re-echoed with the crashing thunder. The blinding lightning shot athwart the lowering sky till the nerves of the watcher fairly jumped at each successive flash. And he realized what a blessing the deluge of rain was in that world of resinous timber. What might have been the consequences had the storm preceded the rain? Hardened as he was to such things, even Hervey shuddered to think.

Wild as was the outlook, the waiting man's thoughts were in keeping with his surroundings, for more relentless they could not well have been. Iredale's money-bags should surely be opened for him that night before he returned home. He would levy a heavy toll for his silence.

His great dark eyes, so indicative of the unrestrained nature which was his, burned with deep, cruel fires as he gazed out upon the scene. There was a profoundness, a capacity for hellishness in their expression which scarcely belonged to a sanely-balanced mind. It was inconceivable that he could be of the same flesh and blood as his sister, and yet there was no doubt about it. Perhaps some unusually sagacious observer would have been less hard to convince. Hervey was bad, bad all through. Prudence was good. Swayed by emotion the girl might have displayed some strange, hidden, unsuspected passionate depths, as witness her feelings at her dying lover's bedside. Her rage at the moment when she realized that he had been murdered was indescribable. The hysterical sweep of passion which had moved her at that moment had been capable of tragic impulse, the consequences of which one could hardly have estimated. But her nature was thoroughly good. Under some sudden stress of emotion, which for the moment upset the balance of reason, a faint resemblance to the brother might be obtained. But while Hervey's motives would be bad, hers would have for their primary cause a purpose based upon righteousness. The man needed no incentive to sway his dispositions. He had let go his hold upon the saving rock, now he floated willingly upon the tide of his evil disposition. He preferred the broad road to Hell to the narrow path of Righteousness. It may not always have been so.

The storm abated with the suddenness of its kind. During Hervey's long wait Chintz did not leave him entirely alone. Several times, on some trivial pretext the little man visited the sitting-room. And his object was plainly to keep an eye upon his master's unbidden guest. At last there came a clatter of galloping hoofs splashing through the underlay of the forest, and presently Iredale pulled up at the door.

Hervey watched the rancher dismount. And his survey was in the nature of taking the man's moral measure. He looked at the familiar features which he had come to know so well; the easy, confident movements which usually characterized Iredale; the steady glance, the quiet undisturbed expression of his strong face. The watching man saw nothing unusual in his appearance, nothing to give him any clue; but Hervey was not a keen observer. Only the most apparent change would have been seen by him; the subtler indications of a disturbed mind were beyond his ken. Iredale seemed to be merely the Iredale he knew, and as he watched his lips parted with a sucking sound such as the gourmand might make in contemplating a succulent dish.

Iredale came in. Hervey met him at the door of the sitting-room, and his greeting was cordial, even effusive.

"How are you, George? I knew you were to be back to-day. Jolly glad you've returned. Quite missed you, you know. By Jove! what a storm. Wet?"

"A bit; nothing to speak of. They told me at the farm you were over here."

Iredale looked quickly round the room. His survey was not lost upon his visitor. Then he went on—

"Chintz looked after you? Had any refreshment? Whisky?"

"Chintz looked after me! He looked in every now and then to see what I was doing." Hervey laughed unpleasantly. "Yes, I can do with a gentle 'four-fingers'; thanks."

Iredale produced a decanter and glasses and a carafe of water. Then he excused himself while he went to change his clothes. While he was gone Hervey helped himself to a liberal measure of the spirit. He felt that it would be beneficial just then. His host's unconcerned manner was a little disconcerting. The rancher seemed much harder to tackle when he was present.

Presently Iredale returned, and, seating himself in a deck-chair, produced a pipe, and pushed his tobacco jar over to his visitor. He was wondering what Hervey had come over for. He had no wish for his company just then. He had hoped to spend this evening alone. His mind was still in a state of feverish turmoil. However, he decided that he would get rid of the man as quickly as the laws of hospitality would allow.

A silence fell whilst the rancher waited to hear the object of the visit. The other refused to smoke, but Iredale lit his pipe and smoked solemnly. His face was, if possible, more serious than usual. His eyes he kept half veiled. Hervey cast about in his mind for the opening of his attack. He seated himself on the edge of the table and looked out of the window. He raised his eyes to the leaden sky, then he withdrew his gaze and looked upon the floor. He swung one leg to and fro, as he leant sideways and supported his attitude with a hand resting upon the table. At length, as the silence continued, and Iredale presently raised his eyes and stared straight at him, he turned to the decanter and helped himself to another drink. Then he set his glass down with a heavy hand.

"Good tack, that," he observed. "By the bye, where have all your owls departed to? Are they like the ducks, merely come, pause, and proceed on their migratory way? Or perhaps"—with a leer—"they only stand on sentry in the valley when—when you require them to."

Iredale permitted the suspicion of a smile. But there was no geniality in it; on the contrary, it was the movement of his facial muscles alone. Hervey had touched upon delicate ground.

"Did they not welcome you with their wonted acclamation?" he asked, removing his pipe from his lips, and gently pressing the ash down into the bowl with his finger-tip.

The other grinned significantly. He had plunged, and now he felt that things were easier. Besides, the spirit had warmed him.

"That's a real good game you play, George, old man. The imitation is excellent. I was deceived entirely by it. It was only the other night that I learned that those fearful screech-owls were human. Most ingenious on your part. You are well served."

Iredale never moved. He smoked quite calmly. His legs were crossed and the smile still remained about his mouth. Only his eyes changed their expression, but this was lost upon Hervey, for they were half closed.

"I don't think I quite understand. Will you explain?" The rancher spoke very deliberately, his voice was well modulated but cold.

Hervey laughed boisterously to cover a slight nervousness. This attitude of Iredale's was embarrassing. He had anticipated something different.

"Is there any need of explanation?" he asked, when his forced hilarity had abruptly terminated. "The only thing which puzzles me is that you've kept it up so long without being discovered."

There was a long pause. Then Iredale removed his pipe from his mouth, knocked it out upon the heel of his boot, and returned it to his pocket. Then he rose from his seat and stood squarely before the other.

"Don't let us beat about the bush," he said. "I think plain speaking is best—in some cases. Now, what have you to say?"

Hervey shrugged his shoulders. His dark eyes avoided the other's gaze; the steely flash in Iredale's grey eyes was hard to confront.

"A good deal," he said, with raucous intonation. "The smuggling of Chinese and consequently opium is a profitable trade. There's room for more than one in it."

"Go on."

Iredale's tone was icy.

"Of course I am not the man to blow a gaff like this. There's too much money in it, especially when worked on extensive lines, and when one is possessed of such an ideal spot as this from which to operate That was a positive stroke of genius of yours in selecting the graveyard as a hiding-place. I suppose now that place is honeycombed with cellars for the storage of—of—yellow. Must be, from the number of 'yellow-devils' I saw come out of the grave the other night. My, but you're slick, Iredale; slick as paint. I admire you immensely. Who'd have thought of such a thing? I tell you what, you were never intended for anything but defeating the law, George, my boy. We could do a lot together. I suppose you aren't looking for a partner?"

Iredale's face wore an almost genial expression as he replied. The rancher's tones were so cordial that Hervey congratulated himself upon the manner in which he had approached the subject.

"Well, to tell you the truth, I wasn't," he said. "As a matter of fact, you must have seen me despatching my last cargo of—yellow. Why? Were you thinking of starting in the business?"

"That is my intention."

"Is?"

"Yes, is." Hervey's tone was emphatic, and his attitude truculent.

"Ah! are you prepared to buy this place?" Iredale went on. "I can easily hand you over my connection."

"Buy?" Hervey thought this man was dense. "Why, I haven't two cents to my name to buy anything with. No, I don't think there will be any buying and selling between us, George Iredale."

"Then what do you propose? We may as well come to a definite arrangement."

The rancher's tone was peculiar.

"We'll run this thing for all it's worth. Hang to it as long as there's a cent to be made."

Hervey helped himself to more whisky. His self-satisfaction was immense. He had not thought that Iredale would have been so easy to handle.

"Um. A very nice, comfortable arrangement—for you." Iredale moistened his lips slowly. "You'll sup the juice while I squeeze the orange for you. No, friend Hervey, I'm not dealing."

"But you must!"

"Must?"

"Yes; don't be a fool. It means more money to you, and I shall share in the profits."

"If I wanted to make more money I could continue in the business alone. I am not here to make money for you."

Iredale stared straight into the face before him. His grey eyes seemed to pierce through and through his companion. Hervey moved from his position. Iredale's attitude was coldly uncompromising.

"Then you refuse my offer?"

"Most emphatically."

Hervey was inclined to show his teeth. However, he checked the impulse and spoke in a conciliating tone.

"There is another alternative. Your fortune is very large. I want fifty thousand dollars."

Iredale's face relaxed into a genuine smile.

"Your demands are too modest," he said ironically, "Anything else?"

The other's eyes looked dangerous. The lurid depths were beginning to glow.

"The money I am going to have before I leave here to-night."

"Ah! blackmail. I thought so."

Iredale's contempt was biting.

"Call it what you like, Mr. George Iredale. I tell you this, you are in my power and you will have to buy my silence. You like plain speaking; and now you've got it. Refuse compliance, and I leave here to expose you."

"Pooh," said Iredale, leisurely turning to the window. "Do you think I'm a babe? How are you going to prove your charge? Why, you must be the veriest simpleton to think I am unprepared. By the time you can bring the law about me there will not remain a trace of—my work. You can never bring your charge home."

"Ah, you think not." Hervey's words sounded like a snarl. The whisky he had drunk had worked him to a proper pitch. He had not done yet. His next shot was to be a long one and a bold one, and he was not sure where it would hit. He was not sure that it might not rebound and—but his was the nature which makes for success or disaster without a second thought. For him there was no middle course. His temperament was volcanic and his actions were largely governed by the passionate nature which was his. Iredale had not turned from the window, or he would have seen the evil working of that face. His own great, broad shoulders were set squarely before Hervey's gaze, and the uncompromising attitude only added fuel to the latter's already superheated feelings. "Perhaps you might find it interesting to know that they are hot upon the trail of the man who shot Leslie Grey."

Iredale swung round like a flash. Nor were the storm-clouds which but now frowned in the heavens more black than the expression of his face.

"You miserable hound!" he cried, his eyes sparkling, and his jaw muscles fairly quivering with the force of his clenching teeth. "What hellish crime would you attempt to fix on me now?"

Hervey grinned with all the ferocity of a tiger.

"I wish to fix no crime on you. I merely mention a fact. Leslie Grey was the only accuser of his murderer. He stated before he died that the man who inserted the notice in the paper which ran, 'Yellow booming—slump in Grey,' was the man who murdered him. I suppose you don't happen to know who was responsible for that enigmatical line? You did not inspire it?"

The look that accompanied the man's words was fiendish. The great eyes shone with a savage light They expressed a hatred which no words could describe. Iredale's hands clenched and unclenched. His fingers seemed as though they were clutching at something which they longed to tear to atoms, and his thoughts centred upon the man before him.

Twice that day he had heard this challenge. Once uttered in all unconsciousness of its significance, but now with hideous meaning. His powers of self-restraint were great, but he had reached their limit. This man had accused him of a dastardly murder. Suddenly his voice rang out through the room like the bellow of a maddened bull. His great figure quivered with the fury of his passion. Hervey had done his worst; now he shrank before the storm he had provoked.

"Out of my house, you scum!" Iredale roared.

"God! but if you stay here an instant longer, I'll smash you as I would a louse."

The rancher stood panting at the door. His flashing eyes never left the face of the man before him. Hervey moved; he hesitated. The grin had left his face and a look of dread had replaced it. Then he moved on, forgetful of all but his moral and physical fear of the commanding figure of enraged manhood that seemed to tower over him. He even forgot the weapon which lay concealed in his pocket. He slunk on out of the door amidst a profound silence, out into the soft twilight of the valley.

The door stood open; the window stood open. Iredale looked after him. He watched the tall, drooping figure; then, as Hervey passed from view, Iredale turned back and flung himself into his chair, and his laugh sounded through the stillness of the room.

But there was no mirth in that laugh. It was like the hysterical laugh of a man whose nerves are strained to breaking tension.

He knew he had made a terrible mistake. His rage had placed a deadly weapon in his enemy's hands. He had practically admitted his authorship of the notice in the Winnipeg paper. What would be the result? he asked himself. Again that strained laugh sounded through the room.

As Hervey rode away from the valley his fear of George Iredale fell from him as might a cloak. His face wore full expression of the evil in his heart.

He, too, laughed; but his laugh was an expression of triumph.

"You're less clever than I thought, George Iredale," he muttered. "You would have done better to have bought my silence. Now I can sell my discovery elsewhere. Money I want, and money I mean to have."

But he spurred his horse on as an anxious thought came to him.



CHAPTER XIV

A STAB IN THE DARK

Mrs. Malling fumbled her glasses out of her pocket and adjusted them on her nose. She had paused in her work to receive her letters, which had just been brought from Lakeville. The girls stood by waiting to learn the news.

The summer kitchen was stifling hot. The great cook-stove, throwing off a fearful heat, helped to heighten the brilliancy of the farm-wife's complexion, and brought beads of perspiration out upon her forehead. Prudence and Alice looked cool beside "Mother Hephzy," but then they were never allowed to do any work in the kitchen. Mrs. Malling loved her kitchen better than any part of the house. She had always reigned supreme there, and as long as she could work such would always be the case.

Now she was preparing the midday meal for the threshing gang which was at work in the fields. Great blocked-tin canteens stood about upon the floor waiting to receive the hot food which was to be sent down to the workers. Hephzibah was a woman of generous instincts where the inner man was concerned. The wages she paid were always board wages, but no hired man was ever allowed to work for her and pay for his keep. She invariably insisted that every labourer should be fed from her kitchen, and she took care that his food was the best she could provide.

"Alice, girl," the old lady said, as she tore open the first letter, "go and see if Andy is hitching-up yet. Tell him that the dinner boxes will be ready in quarter-hour. Maybe you'll find him in the bean patch, I sent him to gather a peck o' broad beans. Who's this from?" she went on, turning to the last page of her letter to look at the signature. "H'm—Winnipeg—the bank. Guess I'll read that later."

Alice ran off to find Andy, and Mrs. Malling picked up another envelope.

"Prudence, my girl," went on the farm-wife, as soon as Alice's back was turned, "just open that other," pointing to a blue envelope. "The postmark reads Ainsley. I take it, it's from young Robb Chillingwood. Maybe it's to say as he'll be along d'rectly."

Prudence picked the last letter up.

"It is hot in here, mother; I wonder you can stand it."

Her mother looked up over her spectacles.

"Stand it, child? It's a woman's place, is the kitchen. I can't trust no one at the stove but myself. I've done it for over forty summers, an' I don't reckon to give it up now. This is from that p'lice feller. He ain't doing much, I'm thinking. Seems to me he spends most of his time in making up his bills of expenses. Howsum, you look into it. What's Master Robb say?"

She put her glasses back into their broad old-fashioned case and turned back to the stove. She could never allow anything to keep her long from her cooking. She lifted a lid and stabbed her cooking fork gently into a great boiler full of potatoes. Then she passed round to the other side and shook up the fire.

"Oh, what a shame, mother! Won't Al be disappointed? Robb can't come out here, at least not to stay." Prudence had finished her letter and now looked disappointedly over at her mother.

"And how be that?" asked the old lady, standing with a shovel of anthracite coal poised in her hand.

"He says that the rush of emigrants to the district keeps him at work from daylight to dark. It's too bad. Poor old Al!"

Mrs. Malling dumped the coal into the stove with a clatter and replaced the circular iron top. She said nothing, and Prudence went on.

"He's coming out this way on business shortly, and will call over here if possible. But he can't stay. Says he's making money now, and is writing to Al and giving her all particulars. I am sorry he can't come."

"Well, well; maybe it's for the best," said her mother, in a consolatory manner. "Seemingly his coming would only 'a caused bickerings with Hervey, and, good-sakes, we get enough of that now. I'm not one for underhand dealings, but I'm thinking it would be for the best not to say anything to your brother about his coming at all. If he asks, just say he can't come to stop. I'd sooner keep Hervey under my eye. If he goes off, as he said, you never know what mischief he'll be getting up to. He just goes into Winnipeg and gets around with them scallywags, and—and you never know. I have heard tell—though he never lets on—as he's too fond o' poker. Leastways, I do know as he spends more money than is good for him. Sarah and me was talking only the other day. Sarah's pretty 'cute, and she declares that he's got gaming writ in his lines. Maybe it's so. I'll not dispute. He won't have no excuse for leaving now." And she sighed heavily and took up the vegetables from the stove.

Alice returned, and the sound of wheels outside told the farm-wife that the buckboard was ready for the men's dinner.

The two girls and the old lady portioned out the food into the great canteens, and Andy lifted them on to the buckboard. Then the choreman drove away.

By the time the farm dinner was ready Alice had quite got over her disappointment. Prudence had told her the contents of the letter, and also her mother's wishes on the subject. Alice was naturally too cheerful to think much of the matter; besides, she was glad that Robb's business was improving.

Hervey came up from the fields in Andy's buckboard. He always came home for his dinner, and to-day he brought an atmosphere of unwonted cheerfulness with him. He had spent much thought and consideration upon his relations with George Iredale, and the result of his reflections was displayed in his manner when he returned from the fields. Never in his life had he held such a handful of trumps. His hand needed little playing, and the chances of a cross ruff looked to him remote.

After the meal he went out to the barn, where he smoked for awhile in pensive solitude. He thought long and earnestly, and was so absorbed that he looked up with a start at the sound of his mother's voice calling to him from the open kitchen window.

"Bestir yourself, Hervey, boy. There's work to be done down in the fields, which is your share in the day's doings."

And the man, removing the pipe from his mouth, forgot to grumble back a rough retort, and answered quite cheerfully—

"All right, mother. Is Prudence there?"

"Where should she be, if not?" replied his mother, turning back from the window to tell his sister that she was wanted.

Prudence came out. Hervey watched her as she approached. He could not but admit to himself the prettiness of her trim figure, the quiet sedateness of her beautiful, gentle face. Gazing intently, he failed to observe the faint shadow in the expression of her soft brown eyes. There was no sympathy in his nature, and without sympathy it would have been impossible to read the expression. But Prudence was feeling a little sad and a little hurt. Iredale had not fulfilled his promise. Two days had passed since he had told her that he loved her and had asked her to be his wife; nor, since then, had he been over to the farm, nor had she heard a word from him. Fortunately, she told herself, she had said nothing of what had passed between them, not even to her friend Alice; thus she was spared the sympathy of her friends. She had waited for his coming with a world of eager delight in her heart, and each moment of the day on which he was to have come to see her mother had been one of unalloyed happiness to her. Then as the evening drew on she became anxious. And again as night came, and still no sign from him, her anxiety had given place to alarm. That night she slept little, but she kept her trouble to herself. Alice was all eagerness to ask questions of her friend, but Prudence gave her no opportunity. The next morning a note had arrived. Business detained him, but he would be over at the earliest possible moment. And now the third day was well advanced and he still remained away. She did not doubt him, but she felt hurt and a little rebellious at the thought of his allowing himself to be detained by business. Surely his first duty was to her. It was not like him, she told herself; and she felt very unhappy.

Hervey greeted her with an assumption of kindness, almost of affection.

"Are you busy, Prue? I mean, I want to have a little talk with you. I've been working in your interests lately. You may guess in what direction. And I have made a strange discovery. We haven't hit it off very well, I know, but you must forgive me my shortcomings. I have lived too long in the wilds to be a pleasant companion. Can you spare me a few minutes?"

The dark eyes of the man were quite gentle in their expression, and in the girl's present state of mind his apparent kindliness had a strong effect upon her. She was surprised, but she smiled up into his face with a world of gratitude. In spite of all, her love for her brother was very deeply rooted. The simplicity of her nature and the life she lived made her an easy victim to his villainous wiles.

"Why, yes, Hervey; as long as you like."

"Good; I'm going down to the threshing. Will you walk some part of the way with me? Mother has just reminded me that my work must not be neglected. Another two days and we shall be ready for the fall ploughing."

The sun was pouring down with fervid intensity. The yard was very still and quiet. Everything that had leisure was resting drowsily in the trifling shade obtainable. The swine had ceased to make themselves heard and were sleeping upon each other's abdomens. The fowls were scratching with ruffled feathers in the sandy hollows of the parched earth, which they had made during the hours of morning energy. The pigeons had departed for the day to the shelter of a distant bluff. Even the few horses remaining within the barn were dozing. The dog, Neche, alone seemed restless. He seemed to share with his master the stormy passions of a cruel heart, for, with infinite duplicity, he was lying low, pretending to be occupied with a great beef shin-bone, while his evil eyes watched intently the movements of half-a-dozen weary milch cows, which were vainly endeavouring to reach the shelter of their sheds. But the dog would not have it. With a refinement of torture he would allow them to mouch slowly towards their yard, then, just as they were about to enter, he would fly into a dreadful passion, and, limping vigorously at their heels, would chase them out upon the prairie and then return once more to his bone, only to await his opportunity of repeating the operation.

Hervey and Prudence moved away and passed down the trail. Neche reluctantly left his bone—having satisfied himself in a comprehensive survey that no canine interloper was about who could steal his treasure during his absence—and followed them. He walked beside the girl without any sign of pleasure. He was a dog that seemed to find no joy in his master's or mistress's company. He seemed to have no affection in him, and lived a life of mute protest.

Hervey did not speak for a few minutes. It was Prudence who broke the silence.

"I suppose it is something to do with Leslie's death that you want to talk to me about. I wondered what your object was when you questioned me so closely upon his dying words. Have you discovered a fresh clue?"

"Something more than a fresh clue." Hervey had relapsed into his old moroseness.

"Ah!" The girl's face lit with an almost painful eagerness. For a moment her own immediate troubles were forgotten. A wild feeling surged up in her heart which set the blood tingling in her veins, and she waited almost breathlessly for her brother's next words.

Hervey displayed no haste. Rather he seemed as though he would gain time.

"That message or advertisement in the paper. Did you ever attempt to fathom its meaning? It was something of a puzzle."

Prudence gazed up at the dark face beside her. Hervey was looking down upon the dusty trail. His look was one of profound thought. In reality he was calculating certain chances.

"I tried, but failed dismally. To me it conveyed nothing beyond the fact that its author shot Leslie."

"Just so. But before I tell you what I have discovered you must understand the argument. That line contained a message, a message so significant that once read with understanding the mystery of Grey's death became one that a child might solve."

"Yes—yes. But the reading of it," Prudence exclaimed impatiently.

"It is intelligible to me."

"And——"

It was a different girl to the one we have hitherto seen who awaited the man's next words. The old, gentle calmness, the patient, even disposition had given place to a world of vengeful thought. There was a look in those usually soft brown eyes which bore a strange resemblance to her brother's. A moment had arrived in her life when circumstances aroused that other side of her character of which, perhaps, even she had been ignorant. She learned now of her own capacity for hatred and revenge. Some preliminary warnings of these latent passions had been given when Grey had died, but the moment had passed without full realization. Now she felt the ruthless sway of a wave of passionate hatred which seemed to rise from somewhere in her heart and creep over her faculties, locking her in an embrace in which she felt her good motives and love being crushed out of all recognition. There could be no doubt as to the resemblance between these two people in that one touch of nature. Hervey was a long time in answering. He had not only to tell her of his discovery, but there were his personal interests to consider. He wished to re-assure himself of his own advantage.

"See here, Prue, what are you offering—or rather, is mother offering—to that detective chap if he discovers the murderer of Grey? Let us quite understand one another. I don't intend to part with my discovery for nothing. I want money as badly as anybody can want it. For a consideration I'll tell you, and prove to you, who murdered your man. Provided, of course, the consideration is sufficiently large. Otherwise I say nothing."

For a moment Prudence looked up from beneath her sun-bonnet into her brother's face. The scorn in her look was withering. She had long since learned the selfish nature of this man, but she had not realized the full depths to which he had sunk until now. He would sell his information. And the thought scorched her brain with its dreadful significance.

"How much will buy you?" she asked at last. And words fail to express the contempt she conveyed in her tone.

Hervey laughed in a hollow fashion.

"You don't put it nicely," he said. "Ah, how much will buy me?" he added thoughtfully.

"When a man chooses the methods of Judas it seems to me there need be no picking or choosing of words. What do you want? How much?"

His answer came swiftly. He spoke eagerly, and his tone was quite different from that which his companion was used to. It was as if some deep note in his more obscure nature had been struck, and was now making itself heard above the raucous jangling of discord by which his life was torn. His words were almost passionate, and there was a ring of truth in them which was astonishing, coming from such a man.

"Look here, Prue, I want to get away from here. I want to get out upon the world again, alone, to make my life what I choose. I can't stand this place; the quiet surroundings; the people with whom I come in contact. It isn't living; it's existence, and a hellish one at that. Look around; prairie—nothing but prairie. In the winter, snow, endless snow; in the summer, the brown, scorched prairie. The round of unrelieved, monotonous labour. Farming; can mind of man conceive a life more deadly? No—no! I want to get away from it all; back to the life in which I was my own master, unfettered by duties and distasteful labours for which I am responsible to others. From the beginning my life has been a failure. But that was not originally my fault. I worked hard, and my ideals were sound and good. Then I met with misfortune. My life was my own to make or mar after that; what I chose to do with it was my own concern. But here I do not live. I want the means to get away; to make a fresh start in different surroundings. Sooner or later I must go, or I shall become a raving maniac. You can help me in this, even as I can help you in the cause in which you are now spending and wasting a lot of money. Get mother to give me fifteen thousand dollars, not only as the price of my information, but also to help me, as your brother, to make another start. I am not wanted here, neither do I want to remain."

He ceased speaking. The truth had died out of his tone when he mentioned the money, and his words were the specious wheedling of one who knows the generous kindliness of those with whom he is dealing. But Prudence gave no heed to anything but that which found an answering chord in the passionate emotion which swayed her. Hervey's appeal to get away drew from her some slight proportion of sympathetic understanding, but her main feeling was a desire to learn the truth which he had discovered.

"Yes, yes; but the clue—discovery."

"First, the money. First, you must show me that you will do this thing for me."

"I can only answer for myself. I can promise nothing in mother's name."

"Yes, but for yourself. You have an interest in the farm."

"Yes, I will give you all I have—all—all—if you can prove to me, and in a court of law, who was the man who shot Leslie Grey. I have saved nearly everything I have made out of creamery. It is not as large a sum as you require, but I can raise the rest from mother. You shall have all you ask if you can tell me this thing. But bear this in mind, Hervey, you will have to prove your words. I give you my word of honour that the money will be forthcoming when you have accomplished this thing."

Prudence spoke earnestly. But there was caution in what she said. She did not trust her brother. And though she was ready to pay almost anything for the accomplishment of her purpose, she was not going to allow herself to be tricked.

Hervey didn't like these stipulations. He had calculated to extort a price for his information only. The proving of his charge was a matter which would entail time and trouble, and something else which he did not care to contemplate; besides, he wanted to get away. His recollection of his recent interview with Iredale was still with him. And he remembered well the rancher's attitude. It struck him that George Iredale would fight hard to prove his innocence. He wondered uncomfortably if he could establish it. No, he must make a better bargain than the girl offered.

"See here, Prue, this is a matter of business. There is no sentiment in it as far as I am concerned. Your conditions are too hard. You pay me half the money down when I give you the story. You can pay the rest when I have carried out your further conditions. It is only fair. Establishing a case in the law courts is a thing that takes time. And, besides, I have known guilty people to get off before now. I can convince you of the truth of my case. A jury is different."

Prudence thought for a moment. They were already within earshot of the thresher. And the droning of the machine and the jerky spluttering of the traction engine sounded pleasantly in the sultry atmosphere. The dog hobbled lazily at her heels, nor did he show the least sign of interest in his surroundings. The wagons loaded with bountiful sheaves were drawing up to the thresher from half-a-dozen directions, whilst those already emptied were departing for fresh supplies. Everywhere was a wondrous peace; only in those two hearts was an ocean of unrest.

"Very well. If you can convince me, it shall be as you say. You shall have the money. The rest shall remain until after the jury's verdict. I am not prepared to give you the money I have saved for any tale you choose to concoct. Now let me have your story. You have shown me too much of your sordid craving to make me a ready believer."

"You will believe me before I have finished, Prue," the man retorted, with a bitter laugh. "You will find corroboration for what I have to tell in your own knowledge of certain facts."

"So much the better for you. Go on."

In spite of her cautious words Prudence waited with nerves tingling and with rapidly beating heart for her brother's story. She did not know herself. She did not understand the feelings which swayed her. Hervey had an easier task than either of them believed. Of late she had dwelt so long—so intently—upon the matter under discussion that she was ready to believe almost anything which offered a solution to the ghastly mystery. But she did not know this. Hervey told his story with all the cunning of a man who appreciates the results which attach to the effect of his words. He lost no detail which could further his ends.

"Grey, on his deathbed, alluded to the notice in the paper. He did so in answer to your question as to who had shot him?"

"Yes."

"He was perfectly conscious?"

"Yes."

"Some time before he died you and he had discussed this notice, and he told you he was meditating a coup in which that notice had afforded him his principal clue." The girl nodded, and Hervey went on. "Grey was a Customs officer. All his works centred round contraband. No other work came into his sphere of operations. Very well, the clue which that notice afforded had to do with some illicit traffic. The question is, What was the nature of that traffic? Here is the obvious solution. 'Yellow booming.' What traffic is known by such a title as 'Yellow' in this country? There is only one. Traffic in Chinese! The smuggling of Chinese across the border. And this traffic was booming. Operations were being successfully carried out. Where? The rest is easy. Somewhere in Grey's district. 'Slump in Grey' could only mean, under the circumstances, that Grey's supervision was avoided; that the work was carried out in spite of him. You know—everybody knows that Chinese are smuggled into Canada at many points along the border, and that opium is brought in at the same time. Thus the poll tax and the opium tax are avoided by men who make a living out of this traffic. The profit is worth the risk. There is a fortune in smuggling opium. The authorities are endeavouring to put it down. It is well known that our cities are swarming with Chinese for whom no poll tax has been paid. And yet the legitimate importation of opium does not increase. Rather has it decreased in consequence of the prohibitive tax imposed upon it. Still, these Chinese must have their opium. This then was the coup poor Grey meditated. He had discovered a hotbed of opium smuggling. If he succeeded in rounding the smugglers up, it meant a great deal to his future prospects. Is that all plain?"

"Yes, yes; go on."

The girl's eyes were gleaming strangely. She followed every word her brother said with an intentness which boded well for the result of his efforts. The careful array of arguments was speciously detailed. Now she waited for what was still to come without any attempt at concealing her impatience. For the time everything was forgotten while she learned of the murderer of her first love. The peaceful scene about her was set before eyes which no longer gazed with intelligence upon their surroundings. She was back in the farm parlour listening to Leslie's story of his hopes—his aspirations. Every detail of that evening was brought vividly back to her memory. She remembered, too, that that was the night on which Hervey had returned. There was a significance in the thought that was not lost upon her.

Hervey had come to a stand, and Prudence placed herself before him. Neche squatted beside her, and as he sat his head reached up to her waist.

"Very well. The question alone remains, who along the border in this part of the country is smuggling Chinese? And having found your man, did he insert the notice in question?"

"Yes—and you——"

"Chance pointed out the man to me. And I have ascertained the rest."

"And who is the murderer of Leslie?"

There was an impressive pause. Hervey gazed down into the eager upturned face. The dog beside the girl moved restlessly, and as he moved he made a curious whining noise. His nose was held high in the air, and his greenish eyes looked up towards the spotless sun-bonnet.

"The owner of Lonely Ranch. George Iredale!"

Hervey turned abruptly away. Neche had moved a little way back along the trail and stood looking about him. Then out on the still air rang a piercing, hysterical laugh. And Prudence stretched out her arm and clutched at the barbed-wire fence-post as though her mirth had overcome her.

Hervey looked sharply round upon her. Neche gave a low growl, the noise seemed to have offended him; then he limped off down the trail back to the house.