CHAPTER XV

THE MAGGOT AT THE CORE

Hervey's look of surprise quickly changed to one of displeasure. To him his sister's attitude merely suggested incredulity, nothing more.

"Well?" he said at last, as her laugh died out suddenly.

Prudence turned upon him with a strange fierceness.

"Go on. You must tell me more than that to convince me. George Iredale—smuggler, murderer! You must be mad!"

Hervey kept himself well in hand. He was playing for a great stake. He would lose nothing through any ill-advised bluster.

"I was never more sane in my life," he answered coldly. "I am ready to prove my words."

"Prove them."

Prudence's face and the tone of her voice were icy. Her mouth was set firmly, the declined corners testifying to the hard setting of her jaws. She looked straight into her brother's face with an intentness which made him lower his eyes. He had no conception of the fires which he had stirred within her. One unconquerable desire swayed her. This man must tell her all he knew. Then she would refute every word, tell him what manner of man he was, and have him driven from the farm. She hated him at that moment as she might hate a rattlesnake. She was filled with a longing to strike him, her own brother, to the earth.

Hervey spoke in measured, even tones.

"You know the ranch and its surroundings well. You have been there. You have heard the so-called owl cries which greet the visitor upon entering the valley. Those are not owl cries at all, but the work of human sentries always on the watch, ready to give immediate alarm at the approach of danger. The secret of the ranch lies in the graveyard." Prudence started. "That is where I made my first discovery, a discovery of which I should not have understood the significance but for your experiences when picnicking in that region two or three days before. At the time I speak of I had come upon the cemetery for the first time. I had Neche with me. I paused at the broken fence which surrounded it, and surveyed the overgrown graves. While I did so, Neche mouched about among them with canine inquisitiveness. Suddenly he became agitated, and showed signs of having hit upon a hot scent. I watched him curiously. He ran up a path and then paused at one of the stone-marked graves. Here he began to tear wildly at the edge of it. I followed him up and saw that he had dug a hole below the stone. I dragged him away, and found that beneath the stone the grave was hollow. Then I moved hastily away, and, taking the dog to the ruined dead-house, put him on the scent again. He dashed in, whining excitedly as he went. It was while I stood watching for his return that I discovered the most significant point. Directly under my feet, somewhere under the ground, I heard a sound of hammering. Then I knew that the graveyard was no longer the resting-place of the dead, but the abode of the living. Instantly I remembered all the details of your ghost story, and determined to witness for myself the scenes you had observed. Settle it for once and all in your mind. I was troubled with no superstitious fears upon the matter. I guessed the truth." Hervey broke off, but resumed quickly. "That evening I returned to the graveyard surreptitiously, and took up a position in the black shelter of the surrounding woods. I saw all you saw. But the robed figures were not the ghosts which you thought them to be; they were Chinese, carrying their boxes and bundles of personal luggage, and, I have no doubt, a cargo of opium. Then I understood that the graveyard was honeycombed with cellars, and that this place formed the central depot of Iredale's traffic and his distributing station. I can understand how these 'yellow-devils' are distributed by means of loaded hayracks and such things. The point I have not fathomed is the means by which the 'goods' are brought into the country. I suggest the only means I can think of as being almost without risk, and that is the lake."

Hervey paused to watch the effect of his story. Prudence gave no sign. She no longer looked at her companion, but away across the harvested fields in the direction of Iredale's ranch. As he waited for her comment her lips moved.

"Go on," was all she said; and the man proceeded.

"It was an unconscious expression which, in the first flush of discovery I made use of which ultimately gave me a clue to the rest. As realization of Iredale's doings came to me I thought of the notorious 'Traffic in Yellow.' That night I pondered long over the whole thing. I had learned to like Iredale better than any man I have ever known. He had always seemed such an honest, straightforward man. And all of you folks were so fond of him. It was a painful awakening; but there was worse to come, for, as I lay awake thinking, there flashed through my brain the recollection of what you had told me of Grey's death and his reference to the notice in the paper. Instantly the interpretation of that line came to me. It related to the yellow traffic. And I shuddered as I reviewed the possibilities which my discovery opened up. I couldn't rest. A feverish desire to know the worst assailed me. I questioned you as you may remember, and, with every reply you gave me, my fears received confirmation. In the end I could no longer keep silence, and my anger drove me to a course which I have since almost regretted, for it has destroyed the last vestige of the regard I entertained for the man you have all so liked and respected. I went over to the ranch and challenged George Iredale——"

"On the night of the storm. The night he visited me. Go on." Prudence's face was ghastly in its pallor. She gave no other sign of emotion.

"Yes, on the night of the storm. I taxed him with smuggling. He admitted it. I taxed him with the authorship of that notice——"

"Well?" The girl leant forward in her eagerness.

"He did not contradict it. His attitude was a tacit admission. That is my evidence."

Hervey ceased speaking, and a long pause followed. The man waited. He did not wish to hurry her. He was not blind to the fact that she regarded Iredale with something more than mere friendly feeling, and, with fiendish cunning, he had played upon the knowledge by his allusions to his own regard for the man and the trust which they all placed in him. This woman's love for Iredale he knew would help him; for, gradually, as the damning evidence he had produced filtered through her armour of loyal affection, her hatred for the man would be doubled and trebled. In this Hervey displayed a knowledge of human nature which one would scarcely have credited him with.

At last Prudence turned. The pallor of her face was unchanged. Only the look in her eyes had altered. The horror which had shone there had become a world of piteous appeal. All her soul shone forth in those sweet, brown eyes. Surely it must have needed a heart of stone to resist her. Her body was leaning forward, her two brown hands were held out towards him.

"I don't believe it! I can't believe it! George is no—murderer."

Hervey's great eyes lowered before that heartful look. His face was a study in hopelessness. From his expression of deep sorrow Iredale might have been his own brother who was accused of murder.

"I'm afraid there is no hope of what you say, Prue. Leslie was conscious; he knew what he was saying. Iredale had every reason for shooting him. The circumstantial evidence is damning. The most sceptical jury would be convinced."

"O God! O God! And he has asked me to be his wife." Prudence covered her face with her hands, and her body heaved with great, passionate sobs.

Hervey started at the words. His face lit up with a wicked joy. This was better than he had expected. George should pay dearly for his refusal to buy his silence.

"You say he dared to propose to you with that foul crime upon his soul? He is a worse villain than I had believed. By heavens, he shall swing for his crime! I had hoped that my news had come in time to save you this cruel wrong. The scum! The foul, black-hearted scum!"

Hervey's rage was melodramatic. But the girl, even in the depths of her misery and distraught feelings, was impressed. Her heart cried out for her lover, and proclaimed his innocence in terms which would not be silenced. His image rose before her mind's eye, and she looked upon that kindly, strong face, the vigorous bearing of that manly figure, and the story she had just listened to became dwarfed as her faith in him rose superior to the evidence of her senses. It could not be. Her quivering lips struggled to frame the words she longed to utter, but no sound came. Hervey's words, his attitude, his appearance of deep, honest sorrow for his sister paralyzed her faculties and hope died down in her heart.

The man moved forward to her side, and touched her gently on the shoulders.

"Come, Prue, we had best go back to the house. I can do no work to-day. You, too, need quiet for reflection. The heartless villain!" And he harped upon the information his sister had provided him with.

Prudence allowed herself to be led. She did not care whither she went or what happened. She was incapable of reasoning. She was stunned by the cruel blow that had fallen. Later she would recover herself, for all such blows are but passing; in waking moments mind and reason cannot long remain inert and sanity obtain. For the present she was a mere automaton.

Hervey grew uncomfortable at the girl's prolonged silence. He cared nothing for her feelings; he cared nothing for the heart he had broken. He cared only for the money he had not yet secured. He realized only too well that, whatever protest his sister might offer, he had convinced her of Iredale's guilt; it was only a question of time before she admitted it openly. But some feeling of doubt prompted him to secure his wage without delay. Thus his greed rushed him on to a false trail.

Halfway to the house he broke the silence.

"Well, Prue, you cannot refute my evidence. Iredale is the man you have all been seeking. I have served you well. You yourself have escaped a course which would have brought you lifelong regret. Think of it! What would it have meant to you had you married the man? Terrible! Terrible!"

The girl looked up. There was a wild, hunted look in her eyes. Her brother's words had in some way driven her at bay. He had struck a chord which had set her every nerve on edge, and in doing so had upset all his best-laid schemes. A flood of passionate protest surged to her lips and flowed forth in a seething torrent. She remembered what his story had been told for; she had forgotten for the moment, so well had he acted his part, and had thought only that what he had said was the outcome of his regard for her. Now she turned upon him like a tigress.

"Judas!" she cried, a flush of rage sweeping up into her face as the words hissed from between her teeth. "You have come to sell this man. Your thoughts have nothing to do with the meting out of human justice. You want a price for your filthy work. I loathe you! What curse is on our family that you should have been born into it? You shall have your money; do you hear? You shall have it, and with it goes my curse. But not yet. My conditions are not fulfilled. I do not believe you; your story has not convinced me; I can see no reason in it. Ha, ha!" and she laughed hysterically. "You cannot make me believe it because I will not. You shall have your money, I will not go back on my word; but you must fulfil the conditions. You must convince me of the reason in your story. You will earn your pay as you have never earned anything in your life. Shall I tell you how you will earn it? You will prove your story before judge and jury. When you have convinced them you will have convinced me. Then I will pay you. My God, what taint has brought such blood into the veins of our flesh? If Iredale is the murderer he shall pay the extreme penalty, and you—whether you like it or not—shall be instrumental in that punishment. You shall be his accuser; you shall see him to the scaffold. And after it is over, after you have received the sum of your blood-money, I will tell the world of your doings. That you—my brother—demanded a price for your work. They—the world—shall know you; shall loathe you as I loathe you. You shall be an outcast wherever you go, stamped with the brand of Judas—the most despised of all men. Better for you if you stood in George Iredale's place on the scaffold than face the world so branded. Oh, you wretched man, you have destroyed my life—my all! Go, and bring the police. Go to those whose duty it is to listen to such stories as yours. Now I will drive you to it; you shall go, whether you like it or not. Refuse, and I will lay the information and force you to become a witness. You thought you were dealing with a soft, silly woman; you thought to cajole the price out of me, and then, having obtained what you desired, to leave me to do the work. Fool! You will face George Iredale, the accuser and the accused. You shall earn your money. I know the ways of such men as you. Do you know what you are doing? Do you know the name that such work as yours goes by? It is blackmail!"

The girl paused for breath. Then she went on with a bitterness that was almost worse than the contempt in all she had said before.

"But rest content. Every penny you have asked for shall be yours when Iredale's crimes are expiated. Nor shall I give to the world the story of my brother's perfidy until such time as you have gone out of our world for ever. Go, go from me now; I will not walk beside you."

Hervey's face was a study in villainous expression as he listened to his sister's hysterical denunciation. He knew the reason of her tirade. He knew that she loved Iredale. He had convinced her of this lover's crimes; he knew this. And now, woman-like, she turned upon him—for his hand, his words had destroyed her happiness. But her words smote hard. The lowest natures care not what others think of them, but those others' spoken thoughts have a different effect. So it was with Hervey. It mattered nothing to him what the girl thought of him—what the world thought of him. But words—abuse—had still power to move him.

She struck the right note when she said the money down was what he wanted. Now he saw that he had over-reached himself, and he cursed himself for having trusted to a woman's promise. There was but one thing left for him to do. He controlled himself well when he replied.

"Very well, sister," he said. "In spite of what you say, you are going back on your word. You should have thought to fling dirt before you entered into a compact with me. However, I care nothing for all your threats. As you have said, I want money. Nothing else matters to me. So I will go to Winnipeg and see this thing through."

"You certainly will have to do so. Andy shall drive you into town to-night, and I could find it in my heart to wish that I might never see your face again."

"Very well." Hervey laughed harshly. "As you wish. I accept your commands. See you as readily fulfil your part of the contract when the time comes. You do not hoodwink me again with impunity."

And so brother and sister parted. The girl walked on to the house, her feet dragging wearily over the dusty trail. Hervey paused irresolutely. His burning eyes, filled with a look of bitter hatred, gazed after the slight figure of his sister, whose life he had so wantonly helped to wreck. Then he laughed cruelly and turned abruptly back on his tracks and returned once more to the harvesters.

Prudence gained the house and went straight to her room. She wanted to be alone. She wanted to straighten out the chaos of her thoughts. She heard the cheery voices of her mother and Alice talking in the kitchen. She heard the clatter of plates and dishes, and she knew that these two were washing up. But beyond that she noticed nothing; she did not even see the plump figure of Sarah Gurridge approaching the house from the direction of Leonville.

Once in her own little room she flung herself into an arm-chair and sat staring straight in front of her. Her paramount feeling was one of awful horror. The mystery was solved, and George Iredale was the murderer. The metal alarm clock ticked away upon the wooden top of her bureau, and the sound pervaded the room with its steady throb. Her feelings, her thoughts, seemed to pulsate in concert with its rhythm. The words which expressed her dominant emotions hammered themselves into her brain with the steady precision of the ticking—

"George Iredale, the murderer of Leslie Grey!"

The moments passed, but time brought the girl no relief. All thought of the man who had told her of this thing had passed from her. Only the fact remained. Slowly, as she sat with nerves tingling and whirling brain, a flush of blood mounted to her head, her brain became hot, and she seemed to be looking out on a red world. The ticking of the clock grew fainter and more distant. The room seemed to diminish in size, while the objects about her drew nearer and nearer. A sense of compression was hers, although she seemed to be gazing out over some great distance with everything around her in due perspective.

Mechanically she rose and opened the window; then she returned to her chair with something of the action of an automaton.

And as she sat the blood seemed to recede from her brain and an icy dew broke out upon her forehead. She was numbed with a sort of paralysis now, and the measured beat of the clock no longer pounded out the words of her thought. Only her heart beat painfully, and she was conscious of a horrible void. Something was wrong with her, but she was incapable of realizing what it was.

She moved, the chair creaked under her, and again thought flowed through her brain. It came with a rush; the deadly numbness had gone as quickly as it had come, and once more her faculties worked feverishly. Now she realized pain, horror, despair, hopelessness in a sudden, overwhelming flood. She shrank back deeper into the chair as though to avoid physical blows which were being rained upon her by some unseen hand.

Presently she started up with a faint cry. She walked across the room and back again. She paused at the bureau, muttering—

"It can't be! It can't be!" she said to herself, in an agony of terror. "George is too good, too honest. Ah!"

Her love cried out for the man, but reason checked her while her heart tried to rush her into extravagant hopefulness. Iredale had admitted the smuggling. She had seen with her own eyes the doings at the graveyard. And therein lay the key to everything. Leslie had said so with his dying breath. But as this thought came to her it was chased away by her love in a fresh burst of fervour. She could not believe it. There must be some awful, some horrible mistake.

Slowly her mind steadied itself; the long years of calmness which she had spent amidst the profound peace of the prairie helped her. She gripped herself lest the dreadful thought of what she had heard should drive her to madness. She went over what she had been told with a keen examination. She listened to her own arguments for and against the man she loved. She went back to the time when Leslie had told her of his "coup." She remembered everything so well. She paused as she recollected her dead lover's anger at George's coming to the party. And, for a moment, her heart almost stood still. She asked herself, had she misinterpreted his meaning? Had there been something underlying his expressed displeasure at George's coming which related to what he knew of his, George Iredale's, doings at the ranch? Every word he had said came back to her. She remembered that he had finished up his protest with a broken sentence.

"—And besides——"

There was a significance in those words now which she could not help dwelling upon. Then she put the thought from her as her faith in her lover re-asserted itself. But the effort was a feeble one; her love was being overwhelmed by the damning evidence.

She moved restlessly from the bureau to the window. The curtained aperture looked out upon the far-reaching cornfields, which were now only a mass of brown stubble. In the distance, beyond the dyke, she could see the white steam of the traction-engine and the figures of many men working. The carts and racks were moving in the picture, but for all else the view was one of peaceful, unbroken calm.

Her mind passed on to the time when the party had broken up. She remembered how in searching for Iredale she had found the two men quarrelling, or something in that nature. Again Leslie had been on the verge of telling her something, but the moment had gone by and he had kept silence. She tried to deny the significance of these things, but reason checked her, and her heart sank to zero. And she no longer tried to defend her lover.

Then came the recollection of that picnic. The screech-owls; the boats laden with their human freight moving suspiciously over the waters of the great lake. She thought of the graveyard and the ghostly procession. And all the time her look was hardening and the protests of her heart slowly died out. If she had doubted Hervey's words, all these things of which she now thought were facts evident to her own senses. The hard light in her eyes changed to the bright flash of anger. This man had come to her with his love, she reminded herself, and she had yielded to him all that she had power to bestow. The brown eyes grew darker until their glowing depths partially resembled those of her brother.

As the anger in her heart rose her pain increased, and she recoiled in horror at the thought that this man had dared to offer her his love while his hands were stained with black crime. At best he was a law-breaker; at the worst he was——

She paced her room with agitated steps. The blood rose to her head again, and she felt dizzy and dazed. What could she do? What must she do? She longed for some one to whom she could tell all that was in her heart, but she could not speak of it—she dared not. She felt that she must be going mad. Through all her agony of mind she knew that she loved this man who was—a murderer.

She told herself that she hated him, and she knew that she lied to deceive herself. No, no, he was not guilty. He had not been proved guilty, and no man is guilty until he is proved so. Thoughts crowded thick and fast on her sorely-taxed brain, and again and again her hands went up to her head with the action of one who is mentally distracted. But in spite of the conflict that raged within her the angry light in her eyes grew, and a look which was out of all keeping with the sweet face was slowly settling itself upon her features. Again she cried in her heart, "What shall I do?"

Suddenly a light broke through her darkness and revealed to her a definite course. This man must not be judged, at least by her, without a hearing. Why should she not go to him? Why not challenge him with the story? If he were the murderer, perhaps he would strike her to the earth, and add her to the list of his victims. She laughed bitterly. It would be good to die by his hand, she thought. Under any circumstances life was not worth living. The thought fascinated her. Yes, she would do it. Then her spirit of justice rose and rebelled. No. He would then go unpunished. Leslie's death would remain unavenged. The murderer would have triumphed.

She thought long; she moved wildly about the room. And as the hours passed a demon seemed to come to her and take hold of her. It was the demon which looked out of her brother's eyes, and which now looked out of hers. He whispered to her, and her willing ears listened to all he said. Her heart, torn by conflicting passions, drank in the cruel promptings.

"Why not kill him? Why not kill him?" suggested the demon. "If he is guilty, kill him, and your life will not have been lived in vain. If he be a murderer it were but justice. You will have fulfilled your promise of vengeance. After that you could turn your hand against yourself."

And her heart echoed the question, "Why not?"

For nearly an hour she continued to pace her room. Yes, yes! Hers was the right, she told herself. If he were the murderer she did not care to live. They should die together; they should journey beyond together. She thought over all the details, and all the time the demon looked out of her eyes and jogged her with fresh arguments when her heart failed. She knew where her brother kept his pistols. She would wait until he had set out for Winnipeg. Then, on the morrow, she would ride over to Lonely Ranch.

She nursed her anger; she encouraged it at every turn. And she longed for the morrow. But outwardly she grew calm. Only her eyes betrayed her. And they were not the eyes of perfect sanity. They glowed with a lurid fire, the fire which shone in the fierce, dark eyes of her brother.



CHAPTER XVI

AN ECHO FROM THE ALASKAN MOUNTAINS

Alice searched all over the farm for her friend. The last place in which she thought of looking was the little bedroom the two girls shared. Here at length she arrived, and a shock awaited her.

Prudence was sitting beside the window. She was gazing out at the bare, harvested fields, nor did she turn at her friend's approach. It was not until Alice spoke that she looked round.

"Here you are, Prue! Why, whatever is the matter?" she exclaimed, as she noted the grey pallor of the face before her; the drawn lines about the mouth, the fiercely burning eyes. "You poor soul, you are ill; and you never told me a word about it. I have been looking everywhere for you. It is tea-time. What is it, dear?"

"Do I look ill?" Prudence asked wearily. She passed her hand across her forehead. She was almost dazed. Then she went on as she turned again to the window: "I'm all right; my head is aching—that's all. I don't think I want any tea." The next moment she was all alertness. "Has Hervey returned from the fields?"

"Hervey? Yes; why? He's returned and gone away again; gone into Winnipeg. He nearly frightened poor mother Hephzy out of her wits. Came in all of a sudden and declared he must hurry off to Winnipeg at once, and he wanted Andy to drive him. You know his way. He wouldn't give any explanation. He was like a bear to his mother. My fingers were just itching to slap his face. But come along, dear, you must have some tea. It'll do your head good."

While she was speaking Alice's eyes never left her friend's face. There was something about Prudence's expression she didn't like. Her mind at once reverted to thoughts of fever and sunstroke and such things, but she said nothing that might cause alarm. She merely persisted when the other shook her head.

Eventually her persuasions prevailed.

"Mother Hephzy's fretting away down-stairs and Sarah is backing her up. The long-suffering Mary has been catching it in consequence. So come along and be your most cheerful self, Prue. The poor old dears must be humoured."

And Alice with gentle insistence led her companion down to the parlour.

"And where, miss, have you been all this precious time?" asked Mrs. Malling, when the two girls reached the parlour. "Sleeping, I'll be bound, to judge by them spectacles around your eyes. There's no git-up about young folk now-a-days," she went on, turning to Sarah. "Six hours' sleep for healthy-minded women, I says; not an hour more nor an hour less. Sister Emma was allus one o' them for her sy-esta." Then she turned back to Prudence. "Maybe she learned you, my girl."

"I haven't been sleeping, mother," Prudence protested, taking her place at the table. "I don't feel very well."

"Ah, you don't say so," exclaimed the old lady, all anxiety at once. "An' why didn't you tell me before? Now maybe you've got a touch o' the sun?"

"Have you been faint and giddy?" asked Sarah, fixing her quiet eyes upon the girl's face.

"No, I don't think so. I've got a headache—nothing more."

"Ah; cold bath and lemon soda," observed her mother practically.

"Tea, and be left alone," suggested Sarah.

"'Nature designs all human ills, but in the making Suggests the cure which best is for the taking.'"

Her steady old eyes seemed able to penetrate mere outward signs.

"Quite right, 'Aunt' Sarah," said Alice decidedly. "Leave the nostrums and quackeries alone. Prue will be all right after a nice cup of tea. Now, mother Hephzy, one of your best for the invalid, and, please, I'll have some more ham."

"That you shall, you flighty harum-scarum. And to think o' the likes o' you dictating to me about nostrums and physickings," replied the farm-wife, with a comfortable laugh. "I'll soon be having Mary teaching me to toss a buckwheat 'slap-jack.' Now see an' cut from the sides o' that ham where the curin's primest. I do allow as the hams didn't cure just so, last winter. Folks at my board must have of the best."

"I never knew any one to get anything else here," laughed Alice. Then she turned her head sharply and sat listening.

Mrs. Malling looked over towards the window. Prudence silently sipped her tea, keeping her eyes lowered as much as possible. She knew that, in spite of their talk, these kindly people were worried about her, and she tried hard to relieve their anxiety.

"Some one for us," said Alice, as the sound of horse's hoofs came in through the open window.

"Some one from Lakeville, I expect," said Mrs. Malling, making a guess.

"That's George Iredale's horse," said Sarah, who had detected the sound of a pacer's gait.

Prudence looked up in a startled, frightened way. Sarah was looking directly at her. She made no further comment aloud, but contented herself with a quiet mental note.

"Something wrong," she thought; "and it's to do with him. Poor child, poor child. Maybe she's fretting herself because——"

Her reflections were abruptly broken off as the sound of a man's voice hailing at the front door penetrated to the parlour.

"Any one in?" cried the voice; and instantly Alice sprang to her feet.

"It's Robb!" she exclaimed. There was a clatter as her chair fell back behind her; she nearly fell over it, reached the door, and the next moment those in the parlour heard the sound of joyous exclamations proceeding from the hall.

Prudence's expression was a world of relief. Her mother was overjoyed.

"This is real good. Bring him in! Bring him in, Miss Thoughtless! Don't keep him there a-philandering when there's good fare in the parlour!"

"'Love feeds on kisses, we read in ancient lay; Meaning the love of yore; not of to-day,'"

murmured Sarah, with a pensive smile, while she turned expectantly to greet the visitor.

Radiant, her face shining with conscious happiness, Alice led her fiance into the room. And Robb Chillingwood found himself sitting before the farm-wife's generous board almost before he was aware of it. While he was being served he had to face a running fire of questions from, at least, three of the ladies present.

Robb was a cheerful soul and ever ready with a pleasant laugh. This snatched holiday from a stress of under-paid work was like a "bunk" to a schoolboy. It was more delightful to him by reason of the knowledge that he would have to pay up for it afterwards with extra exertions and overtime work.

"You didn't tell us when you were coming," said Alice.

"Didn't know myself. Thought I'd ride over from Iredale's place on spec'."

"And you're come from there now?" asked Mrs. Malling.

Prudence looked up eagerly.

"Yes; I've just bought all his stock for a Scotch client of mine."

"Scotch?" Sarah turned away with a motion of disgust.

"What, has George sold all his beasties at last?" exclaimed the farm-wife.

"Why, yes. Didn't you know? He's giving up his ranch."

Robb looked round the table in surprise. There was a pause. Then Mrs. Malling broke it—

"He has spoken of it—hinted. But we wasn't expectin' it so soon. He's made his pile."

"Yes, he must have done so," said Robb readily. "The price he parted with his cattle to me for was ridiculous. I shall make a large profit out of my client. It'll all help towards furnishing, Al," he went on, turning to his fiancee.

"I'm so glad you are doing well now, Robb," the girl replied, with a happy smile.

"Yes." Then the man turned to Mrs. Malling. "We're going to get married this fall. I hope Alice has been learning something of housekeeping"—with a laugh.

"Why, yes. Alice knows a deal more than she reckons to let on, I guess," said the farm-wife, with a fat chuckle.

Prudence now spoke for the first time since Robb's arrival. She looked up suddenly, and, though she tried hard to speak conversationally, there was a slightly eager ring in her voice.

"When is George Iredale going to leave the ranch?"

Robb turned to her at once.

"Can't say. Not yet, I should think. He seems to have made no preparations. Besides, I've got to see him again in a day or two."

"Then you will stay out here?" asked Alice eagerly.

"Well, no." Robb shook his head with a comical expression of chagrin. "Can't be done, I'm afraid. But I'll come over here when I'm in the neighbourhood, if possible." Then to Mrs. Malling, "May I?"

"Why, certainly," said the farm-wife, with characteristic heartiness. "If you come to this district without so much as a look in here, well, you can just pass right along for the future."

When the meal was over the old lady rose from the table.

"Alice," said she, "you stay right here. Sarah and I'll clear away. Prudence, my girl, just lie down and get your rest. Maybe you'll feel better later on. Come along, Sarah; the young folks can get on comfortably without us for once."

Prudence made no attempt to do as her mother suggested. She moved about the room, helping with the work. Then the two old ladies adjourned to the kitchen. Robb and Alice had moved over to the well-worn sofa at the far end of the room, and Prudence took up her position at the open window. She seemed to have no thought of leaving the lovers together; in fact, it seemed as though she had forgotten their existence altogether. She stood staring out over the little front garden with hard, unmeaning eyes. From her expression it is doubtful if she saw what her eyes looked upon. Her thoughts were of other matters that concerned only herself and another.

The low tones of the lovers sounded monotonously through the room. They, too, were now wrapt in their own concerns, and had forgotten the presence of the girl at the window. They had so much to say and so little time in which to say it; for Robb had to make Ainsley that night.

The cool August evening was drawing on. The threshing gang was returning from the fields, and the purple haze of sundown was rising above the eastern horizon; Prudence did not move. Her hands were clasped before her; her pale face might have been of carved stone. There was only the faintest sign of life about her, and that was the steady rise and fall of her bosom.

A cool breeze rustled in through the open window and set the curtains moving. Then all became still again. Two birds squabbled viciously amongst the branches of a blue-gum in the little patch of a garden, but Prudence's gaze was still directed towards the horizon. She saw nothing; she felt nothing but the pain which her own thoughts brought her.

Suddenly the sound of something moving outside became audible. There was the noisy yawn of some large animal rising from its rest. Then came the slow, heavy patter of the creature's feet. Neche approached the window. His fierce-looking head stood well above the sill. His greenish eyes looked up solemnly at the still figure framed in the opening. His ears twitched attentively. There was no friendly motion of his straight, lank tail; but his appearance was undoubtedly expressive of some sort of well-meaning, canine regard. Whether the dog understood and sympathized with the girl at the window it would have taken something more than a keen observer to have said. But in his strangely unyielding fashion he was certainly struggling to convey something to this girl from whom he was accustomed to receive nothing but kindness.

For some moments he stood thus, quite still. His unkempt body rose and fell under his wiry coat. He was a vast beast, and the wolf-grey and black of his colouring was horribly suggestive of his ancestry. Presently he lifted one great paw to the window. Balancing his weight upon his only serviceable hind-leg, he lifted himself and stood with both front feet upon the sill, and pushed his nose against the girl's dress. She awoke from her reverie at the touch, and her hands unclasped, and she slowly caressed the bristly head. The animal seemed to appreciate the attention, for, with his powerful paws, he drew himself further into the room.

The girl offered no objection. She paid no heed to what he was doing. Her hand merely rested on his head, and she thought no more about him. Finding himself unrebuffed Neche made further efforts; then, suddenly, he became aware of the other occupants of the room. Quick as a flash his nose was directed towards the old sofa on which they were seated, and his eyes, like two balls of phosphorescent light, gleamed in their direction. He became motionless at once. It seemed as though he were uncertain of something.

He was inclined to resent the presence of these two, but the caress of the soft, warm hand checked any hostile demonstration beyond a whine, half plaintive, half of anger.

The disturbing sound drew Alice's attention, and she looked over to where Prudence was standing; it was then she encountered the unblinking stare of the hound's wicked eyes. The sight thrilled her for a moment, nor could she repress a slight shudder. She nudged her companion and drew his attention without speaking. Robb followed the direction of her gaze, and a silence followed whilst he surveyed the strange apparition.

He could only see the dog's head—the rest of the creature was hidden behind the window curtain—and its enormous size suggested the great body and powerful limbs which remained concealed. To Robb there was a suggestion of hell about the cruel lustre of the relentless eyes.

At last he broke into a little nervous laugh.

"By Jove!" he said. "I thought for the moment I'd got 'em. Gee-whizz! The brute looks like the devil himself. What is it? Whose?"

Without replying, Alice called to her friend.

"Let Neche come in, Prue," she said. "That is"—dubiously—"if you think it's safe." Then she turned to Robb. "He's so savage that I'm afraid of him. Still, with Prue here, I think he'll be all right; he's devoted to her."

At the sound of the girl's voice Prudence turned back from the window like one awakening from a dream. Her eyes still had a far-away look in them, and though she had heard the voice it seemed doubtful as to whether she had taken the meaning of the words. For a moment her eyes rested on Alice's face, then they drooped to the dog at her side, but Alice was forced to repeat her question before the other moved. Then, in silence, she stepped back and summoned the dog to her with an encouraging chirrup. Neche needed no second bidding. There was a scramble and a scraping of sharp claws upon the woodwork, then the animal stood in the room. And his attitude as he eyed the two seated upon the sofa said as plainly as possible, "Well, which one is it to be first?"

Robb felt uneasy. Alice was decidedly alarmed at the dog's truculent appearance.

But the tension was relieved a moment later by the brute's own strange behaviour. Suddenly, without the slightest warning, Neche plumped down upon his hind-quarters. His pricked ears drooped, and his two fore paws began to beat a sort of tattoo upon the floor. Then followed a broken whine, tremulous and blandishing, and the great head moved from side to side with that curious movement which only dogs use to express their gladness. Then the strange, three-legged beast went further. Down he threw himself full length upon the floor and grovelled effusively, whining and scraping the boards in a perfect fervour of abject delight.

Robb looked hard at the dog. Then he laughed and turned to Alice.

"What is the creature's name? I didn't catch it."

"Neche," she replied.

Robb held out his hand encouragingly and called the dog by name. The animal continued to squirm but did not offer to come nearer. Every now and then its head was turned back, and the green eyes looked up into Prudence's face. At last Robb ceased his efforts. His blandishments were ineffectual beyond increasing the dog's effusive display.

"A husky," he said, looking across at Prudence. "A bad dog to have about the house. He reminds me of the animals we had up north in our dog-train. They're devils to handle and as fierce as wild cats. We had one just like him. Unusually big brute. He was our 'wheeler.' The most vicious dog of the lot. The resemblance is striking. By Jove!" he went on reminiscently, "he was a sulky, cantankerous cuss. His name was 'Sitting Bull,' after the renowned Sioux Indian chief. We had to be very careful of the other dogs on account of his 'scrapping' propensities. He killed one poor beast I think we nicknamed him rather appropriately. He was affectionately dubbed 'Bully.'"

As Robb pronounced the name he held out his hand again and flicked his fingers. The dog rose from his grovelling posture and came eagerly forward, wagging his lank tail. He rubbed his nose against the man's hand and slowly licked the sun-tanned skin.

Robb's brows drew together in a pucker of deep perplexity. He looked the animal over long and earnestly, and slowly there crept into his eyes an expression of wondering astonishment. He was interrupted in his inspection by the girl at his side.

"Why, he's treating you like an old friend, Robb."

The man sat gazing down upon the wiry coat of the beast.

"Yes," he said shortly. Then he looked over at Prudence. "Yours?" he went on.

The girl shook her head.

"No, he belongs to Hervey."

"Um! I wonder where he got him from," in a meditative tone.

"Somewhere out in the wilds of the Yukon," put in Alice.

"Ah! The Yukon." And Robb's face was serious as he turned towards the window and looked out at the creeping shadows of evening.

There was a pause. Prudence was thinking of anything but the subject of Robb's inquiries. Alice was curious, but she forbore to question. She had heard her lover's account of his misadventure in the Alaskan hills, but she saw no connection between the hound and that disastrous affair. But the man's thoughts were hard at work. Presently he rose to depart.

He bade Prudence good-bye and moved towards the door. The dog remained where he had been standing and looked after him. At the door Robb hesitated, then he turned and looked back.

"Poor old Bully," he said.

With a bound the dog was at his side. Then the man turned away, and, accompanied by Alice, left the room. In the passage he paused, and Alice saw an expression on his face she had never seen before. He was nervous and excited, and his eyes shone in the half-light.

"Al," he said slowly, "I know that dog. And his name is Bully. Don't say anything to anybody. Hervey may be able to tell me something of those who robbed us up in the hills. But on no account must you say anything to him; leave it to me. I shall come here again—soon. Good-bye, little woman."

That evening as Robb Chillingwood rode back to Ainsley he thought of many things, but chiefly he reviewed the details of that last disastrous journey when he and Grey had traversed the snow-fields of Alaska together.



CHAPTER XVII

THE LAST OF LONELY RANCH

There are moments which come in all lives when calm reflection is powerless to influence the individual acts; when calmness, even in the most phlegmatic natures, is impossible; when a tide of impulse sweeps us on, giving us not even so much as a breathless, momentary pause in which to consider the result of our headlong career. We blunder on against every jagged obstacle, lacerated and bleeding, jolting cruelly from point to point, whither our passions irresistibly drive us. It is a blind, reckless journey, from which there is no escape when the tide sets in. We see our goal ahead, and we fondly believe that because it is ahead we must come to it. We do not consider the awful road we travel, nor the gradual exhaustion which is overtaking us. We do not realize that we must fall by the wayside for lack of strength, nor even, if our strength be sufficient to carry us on to the end, do we ask ourselves, shall we be able to draw aside out of the raging torrent when our goal is reached? or shall we be swept on to the yawning Beyond where, for evermore, we must continue to struggle hopelessly to return? Once give passion unchecked sway, and who can say what the end will be?

It was at such a moment in her life at which Prudence had arrived. Her mind was set upon an object which absorbed all her faculties, all her brain, all her feelings. Had she been able to pause, even for one moment, reason must have asserted itself and she would have understood the folly of what she was doing. But that moment was denied her. All the latent passions of a strong nature had been let loose and she was swept on by their irresistible tide. She believed that she was the appointed avenger of the man she had once loved, and that this duty unfulfilled would be a crime, the stain of which nothing could wipe out. Iredale must be confronted, challenged, and——

And so she came to Lonely Ranch on her self-imposed errand of justice.

The man she sought was not in the house when she came. The valley seemed to be devoid of life as she rode up. But the solitude was almost instantly broken by the appearance of Chintz from the region of the barn. She dispatched him in search of his master and passed into the bachelor sitting-room to await his coming.

She was restless and her nerves were strung to a great tension. Her eyes still shone with that peculiar light which ever seemed to look out of her brother's. There was no yielding in the set of her mouth. Her resolve disfigured the sweetness which usually characterized her beautiful features.

She stood before the window, looking out upon the shadow-bathed valley. She saw before her the dark wall of foliage which rose to the heights of the Front Hill. Not a living soul was about, only was there a rising wind which disturbed the unbroken forest of pines. She turned abruptly from the view as though she could not bear the solitude which was thus made so apparent. She crossed over to where the bookcase stood against the wall, and glanced in through the glazed doors. But she comprehended nothing of what she saw. She was thinking, thinking, and her mind was in a tumult of hysterical fancies. And she was listening too; listening for a sound—any sound other than that which the wind made. Mechanically she came over to the table and leant against it in an attitude of abstraction. She shivered; she stood up to steady herself and she shivered again. And all the time the frenzied eyes gleamed in their beautiful oval setting, the lips were drawn inwards, and there remained only a sharply-defined line to mark the sweet mouth. Presently her lips parted and she moistened them with her tongue. A fever seemed to be upon her, and mouth and throat were parched.

Suddenly the sound for which she waited came. She darted eagerly to the window and saw Chintz pass round in the direction of the barn. Then she saw the burly figure of the man she was awaiting appear in the clearing fronting the house.

George Iredale came along at a robust gait. He was clad in moleskin riding-breeches, much stained with clay, as though he had been digging; a soft shirt, the sleeves of which were rolled up above the elbow; his Stetson hat was adjusted at the correct angle upon his head; and he wore a pair of tan-coloured field boots, much smeared with the signs of toil. He came rapidly towards the house. There was nothing furtive, nothing guilty about this man's bearing; he came readily to meet his visitor, and his appearance was the confident bearing of a man who has little to fear.

She saw him look towards the window where she stood, and his smile of welcome set her nerves tingling with a sensation she failed to understand. Her hand went round to the pocket of her linen riding-skirt and remained there. She heard his step in the hall; she heard him approach and turn the door handle. As he came into the room she faced him.

"Why, Prudence, this is a delightful——" he began. But she interrupted him coldly.

"One moment," she said, and her voice was hoarse with the dryness of her throat. "I have not come over for any visit of pleasure, but strictly upon a matter of—of—business. There are some explanations which we both need to make, but more especially you."

"Yes."

Iredale was gazing earnestly into the face before him. He was trying to fathom the meaning of her coldness. For the moment he wondered; then, slowly, he began to understand that Hervey had been at work.

"You got my note," he said, choosing to ignore the result of his observations. "My delay in calling at the farm was unavoidable. I am in the midst of disposing of my ranch. I had not expected that I should have been called upon to do so so soon. I beg that you will forgive me what must seem an unwarrantable delay."

Prudence's nerves were so strung that she felt as though she could strike him for his calm words. Her condition demanded the opposition of passion equal to her own. His coolness maddened her. So long had she dwelt upon the accusation Hervey had brought against him that she believed in this man's guilt. The evidence of her own senses had militated against him, and now she steeled herself in an armour of unbelief. But, in spite of herself, the dictates of her heart were struggling hard to find the joints of her armour. Nor were the struggles lessened now that she stood confronting him. His coolness, though maddening to her, was not without effect. The moral influence he wielded was great.

She backed to the table; then she plunged into the subject of her mission without further preamble. Her eyes stared straight into his, and her tones sounded incisively in the stillness of the room.

"I little knew the man whom I was listening to when he offered me his life, nor had I an idea of how near I was to the man who inspired the words which have appeared in the paper—the words which were the last Leslie Grey ever uttered. What must have been your feelings when I told you that I knew their author to be a murderer?" Then, with scathing bitterness: "But your feelings must have long since been dead—dead as the poor creature you so wantonly sent to his reckoning. The time has come for you to defend yourself; that is, if defence you can offer. No flimsy excuse or extenuation will cover you. Even the Scriptures teach us that the penalty is 'a life for a life.' Yours is the hand that struck Leslie down, and now you must face the consequences of your wanton act."

Iredale's quiet eyes never attempted to avoid the girl's direct gaze, nor did he flinch as the accusation fell from her lips. Never was he more alert, never more gently disposed towards this half-demented creature than at that moment. He recognized the hand that had been at work, and he laid no blame upon her. His feelings were of sorrow—sorrow for the woman he loved, and sorrow for himself. But his thoughts were chiefly for her. He knew, as she had said, that his time had come.

"So Hervey has been to you to sell the discovery which I rejected at the price he asked. He told you that I was a smuggler; that the announcement in the paper was mine. And did he tell you that I was the murderer of Leslie Grey? Or did your heart prompt you to that conclusion?"

The girl supported herself against the table with one hand, and the other was still in the pocket behind her. Iredale noted these things without moving his eyes from her face.

"Hervey told me the facts and the inevitable proof they bore. Nor was his statement exaggerated. My own reason told me that."

The man sighed. He had hoped that the work had been only of the brother's doings. He had hoped that she had come bearing Hervey's accusation and not her own.

"Go on," he said.

"I know you for what you really are, George Iredale. And now I have come to you to give you the chance of defending yourself. No man must be condemned without a hearing. Neither shall you. The evidence against you is overwhelming; I can see no escape for you. But speak, if you have anything to say in your defence, and I will listen. I charge you with the murder of Leslie Grey."

Just for one brief moment Iredale felt a shiver pass through his body. The icy tones of the girl's voice, the seemingly dispassionate words filled him with a horror unspeakable. Then he pulled himself together. He was on his defence before the one person in the world from whose condemnation he shrank. He did not answer at once. He wished to make no mistake. When at last he spoke his words came slowly as though he weighed well each syllable before he gave it utterance.

"With one exception all that Hervey has doubtless said of me is true. I am a smuggler; I inspired that line in the paper; but I am no—murderer. Leslie Grey's life was sacred to me at the time if only for the reason that he was your affianced husband. I loved you at that time as I have loved you for years, and all my thoughts and wishes were for your happiness. It would have made you happy to have married Grey, therefore I wished that you should marry him. I am quite unchanged. I will tell you now what neither you nor Hervey knows, even though it makes my case look blacker. I knew that Grey was on my track. I knew that he had discovered my secret. How he had done so I cannot say. He quarrelled with me, and, in the heat of his anger, told me of his intentions. It was late one night at a card-party at your house, and just before he was so foully murdered. No doubt you, or any right-minded person for that matter, will say that this evidence only clinches the case against me. But, in spite of it, I assert my innocence. Amongst my many sins the crime Hervey charges me with"—he purposely avoided associating the charge with her—"is not numbered. Can I hope that you will believe me?"

The gentle tones in which the burly man spoke, the earnest fearlessness which looked out from his quiet eyes, gave infinite weight to all he said. Prudence shook her head slowly, but the fire in her eyes was less bright, and the voice of her own heart crying out began to make itself heard in the midst of her chaotic thought.

She tried to stiffen herself for the task she had undertaken, but the result was not all she sought Still, she replied coldly—

"How can I believe with all the black evidence against you? You, in all this region, were the one man interested in Leslie's death. His life meant penitentiary to you; his death meant liberty. Your own words tell me that. How can I believe such a denial as you now make? Tell me, have you no proof to offer? Account for the day on which Leslie met his death; prove your movements upon that day."

The girl's denial of belief was belied by the eagerness in her voice. For one brief instant a flash of hope rose in her. She saw a loophole for her lover. She longed to believe him. But the hope died down, leaving her worse distracted for its coming.

For Iredale did not speak, and his face assumed a look of gloom.

"Ah, you cannot—you cannot," she went on hysterically. "I might have known, I did know." A world of passion again leapt into her eyes. Then something of the woman broke through her anger, and a heart-breaking piteousness sounded in her voice. "Oh, why, why did you do this thing? Why did you stain your hands with such a crime as murder? What would his living have meant to you? At worst the penitentiary. Was it worth it to destroy thus the last chance of your immortal soul? Oh, God! And to think of it! A murderer!" Then the fierce anger became dominant once more. "But you shall not escape. Your crime shall be expiated as far as human crimes can be expiated. The gallows awaits you, George Iredale, and your story shall be told to the world. You shall hang unless you can give to judge and jury a better denial than you have given to me." She suddenly broke off. A whistling indrawn breath startled the man before her. She gazed round her wildly; she had remembered what she had come for. She had forgotten when she had talked of "judge and jury." Her face assumed a ghastly hue at the recollection. Her eyes alone still told of the madness that possessed her.

Nor was Iredale without an uneasy feeling at what he saw—that catch of breath; that hunted look as she gazed about the room. Intuition served him in the moment of crisis. What was the meaning? Why was that hand concealed in her dress? There was only one possible answer to such questions, and he read the answer aright.

"Prudence," he said, in his deep musical voice, whilst his keen eyes riveted her attention, "I can prove my innocence of the crime you charge me with. Listen to me patiently, and I will tell you how. Do not let your anger drive you to any rash act which might bring you—lifelong regret."

The girl made a sharp ejaculation. But she did not attempt to interrupt him.

"I can prove that I was not within three hundred miles of this place on the day of Leslie's death," the man went on. "That I was in a city to the west of here distributing"—bitterly—"my wares. I can prove all this—to you. And I intend that before you leave me to-day you shall be a witness to my innocence, even against all prejudice. But before judge and jury it will be different—very different." He sighed. "There I cannot prove my innocence, for to do so would be to betray my comrades—those who have traded with me and trusted me—and send them to the penal servitude which also awaits me." His eyes had become reflective. He seemed to be talking to himself now rather than to the woman before him. "No, I cannot save myself at such a cost. Even to escape the gallows I will not play the part of Judas."

The woman made no reply. She stood staring at him with all that was best in her shining in her eyes. She was trying to follow his every word and to take his meaning, and the one thought which dominated her whole mind was his expressed ability to prove his innocence to her.

He seemed to awake from some melancholy reverie, and again his eyes sought hers.

"Do you wish me to prove my innocence?"

"Yes; you must—you shall!"

The girl moved from the table; and, for the first time during the interview, her hand was removed from the pocket in her skirt. Hope filled the heart in which but now the fires of hell had seemed to burn. She drank in his words with a soul-consuming thirst The proof! That was what she required.

Iredale went on with grave gentleness.

"The proof is in here." He moved to the bookcase and opened a secret recess in the back of it, "In this cupboard."

He produced a pile of books and brought them to the table. Picking out one he opened it at the date of Grey's death. It was a diary. He read out the entries for the entire week, all of which bore out his testimony. Every one was dated at a different town or village, and related to his sales of opium. He then opened another book and showed the entries of his sales and the figures. He went through the whole pile, book after book, and all of them bore out his statement as to his whereabouts. Then he produced several contracts; these were deeds between himself and various traders, and were dated at the towns at which they were signed. Each book and paper he passed on to Prudence for her scrutiny, drawing her attention to the corroboration in the evidence. There could be no doubt as to the genuineness of these facts, and the girl's last shadowy doubts of his innocence evaporated before the overwhelming detail. The hope which had filled her heart was now replaced by a triumphant joy. This man had shown her, had convinced her, and she wanted nothing more at that moment.

She looked up into his face, hoping to see a reflection of her own happiness in it. But there was no happiness there. His face was calm, but the melancholy had deepened in his eyes. What she saw came like an icy douche to her, and the happy expression died upon her lips. She suddenly remembered that he had said he could not use this evidence to publicly declare his innocence.

"But——" she began.

He shook his head. He knew that she wished to protest. For a moment they looked into each other's eyes. Then the woman, the weaker, broke down under the strain. Tears came to her eyes, and she poured out all the pent-up grief of her hours of misery.

"Oh, George," she cried, "can you ever forgive my wickedness? I ought never to have believed. My heart told me that you were innocent; but the evidence—oh, the evidence. I could see no loophole. Everything pointed to you—you. And I, wretch that I am, I believed." And the girl sobbed as though her heart would break. Iredale made no attempt to soothe her; he felt that it would be good for her to weep. She leant against the table, and after a while her sobs quietened. Then the man touched her upon the shoulder.

"Don't cry, Prue; my heart bleeds for you when I listen to your sobs. You're not to blame for believing me guilty. Twelve jurymen will shortly do the same, and who can blame them?" He shrugged. "I must face the 'music' and take my chance. And now, child," he added, his hand still resting upon her shoulder, and smiling down upon her from his superior height, "give me that which you have concealed in your pocket. We will throw it away."

Prudence sprang up and moved beyond his reach.

"No, no! I can't! Don't ask me. Spare me the shame of it. As you love me, George, don't ask me for it."

"As you will, dear; I merely wished to rid ourselves of an ugly presence. While we are together—and it may not be for long now—nothing should come between us, least of all that."

The girl's tears had dried. She looked over at her lover. His compelling influence was upon her. She paused irresolute; then she plunged her hand into her pocket and drew forth a large revolver.

"Here, take it. Take it, and do what you like with it" Then she laughed bitterly. "You know me as I am now. I brought that to shoot you with, and afterwards to shoot myself. You see, I am a murderess at heart." And she smiled bitterly.

Iredale took the weapon and placed it in his bookcase. Then he came to the girl's side and put his arm tenderly about her shoulders.

"Forget it, child; forget it as you would a hideous dream. Your feelings were forced upon you by—well, through my wretched doings. That which I have done to gain wealth has brought only what might have been expected in its train. No work of evil is without its sting, and, as is always the case, that sting seeks out the most sensitive part of its victim. The chastisement for my wrongdoing has been inflicted with cruel cunning, for you, Prue, have been made to suffer; thus is my punishment a hundredfold greater."

He drew her to him as he spoke, and gently smoothed her dark hair. Under the influence of his touch and the sound of his voice, the girl calmed. She nestled close to his side, and for a moment abandoned herself to the delight of being with him. But her thoughts would not remain idle for long. Suddenly she released herself and moved to arm's length from him.

"George," she said, in a tone of suppressed eagerness, "they cannot try you for—for murder. You will tell them. You will show them all—these. For my sake, for the sake of all your friends, you will not let them—condemn you. Oh, you can't allow it. Think," she went on, more passionately; "no men would willingly let you be declared guilty when they know you to be innocent. It must not be."

Iredale gave no outward sign. He had turned his face away and was gazing in the direction of the window. His reflective eyes looked out upon the valley, but his resolve was written plainly in them.

"Do not tempt me, Prue," he said quietly. "Were I to do otherwise than I have resolved, and obtained an acquittal thereby, I should live a life of utter regret. I should despise myself; I should loathe my own shadow. Nothing could be more revolting to me than the man who plays the part of a traitor, and were I that man life would be impossible to me. Think of it only for one moment, sweetheart, and your own good heart will tell you how impossible is that which you ask me to do. It cannot be. All the world would despise me. But even so, its utmost execration would be nothing compared with my own feelings at the thought that I had saved myself by such methods." He withdrew his hand from her embrace. "No, when the time comes and I am forced to stand my trial for Grey's murder, I shall face it. Nor shall I betray my friends by one single word. And, too, when that time comes there will not remain one single trace of the traffic which has hitherto been part of my very existence. There shall be no possible chance of discovery for those who have trusted me. Your brother Hervey will never hold his hand. I know that. I realized that when he left me after seeking 'blackmail.' His vindictive nature will see this through. And perhaps I would rather have it so. It will then be settled once and for all. I may get off, but I fear that it will be otherwise."

At the mention of her brother's name, Prudence started, and the blood receded from her anxious face, leaving it ghastly in its pallor. She had forgotten that he was even now on his way to Winnipeg for the express purpose of denouncing Iredale. For one instant she shook like an aspen. Then she recovered herself. What was to be done? She tried to think. This matter of Hervey was of her doing. She had driven him to it; urged him to it. Now she realized the full horror of what her foolish credulity had led her into. It had been in her power to stay his hand, at least to draw his fangs. Now it was too late. Suddenly she turned upon her lover in one final appeal. At that moment it seemed the only chance of saving him.

"George, there is a way out of it all; one last resource if you will only listen to me. You love me even in spite of the way I have wronged you. You belong to me if only by reason of our love. You have no right to throw your life away when you are innocent. God knows I honour you for your decision not to betray your companions. If it were possible, I love you more than ever. But the sin would be as great to throw your life away for such a shadow as it would be to deliver your friends up to justice. You can save yourself; you must. The border is near. We are right on it. Surely the way you have brought the Chinese into the country should provide an exit for us. Oh, my poor love, will you not listen to me? Will you not give me the life I crave? George, let us go—together."

Her words came passionately. She had stepped forward and placed her two brown hands upon his great shoulders, and her dark, earnest eyes gazed lovingly up into his.

The temptation was a sore one, and the man found it hard to resist. He experienced a sudden rush of blood to the brain. His body seemed to be on fire. He was pulsating with a mad passion. The thought of what she suggested came near to overthrowing his sternest resolve. To go with her. To have her evermore by his side. The thought was maddening. Surely he had never realized until that moment how dearly he loved this woman. But his strong nature came to his rescue in time. The passion had died down as swiftly as it had risen and left him cold and collected.

He gazed down into the brown eyes ever so kindly, ever so lovingly; and his answer came in a tone so gentle that the girl felt that whatever the future might hold for them, this moment had been worth living for.

"No, no, sweetheart. Not flight, even though you would be my companion. We love one another dearly, and for that very fact I could never allow myself to remain under this cloud. At all costs we will have the matter cleared. I owe it to you, to those at the farm, and to myself."

The girl's hands dropped to her sides and she turned away. Then all the agony of her soul found vent in one exclamation.

"Oh, God!" she cried. And with that last cry came the revealing flash which answered the question she had so repeatedly asked herself. She turned back to her lover, and the agonized expression of her face had changed, and in her eyes was the eager light of excitement. Iredale saw the change, but did not recognize its meaning. He felt that she must no longer remain there.

"Child, I want you to go back to the farm and tell them of the accusation that has been brought against me. Tell them all the circumstances of it. Tell them that I have clearly convinced you of my innocence; but, as you love me, I charge you not to reveal the manner in which it was done. Tell your mother that I shall come over to-morrow, and she shall hear the whole story from my own lips. I wish to do this that she may hear my version before she reads of what must happen in the papers. After that I shall go into Winnipeg and set the law in motion. I will clear myself or—otherwise. But on your honour you must promise that all I have shown you to-day remains a secret between us."

Prudence listened intently to all he said, but a quiet look of resolve slowly crept into her eyes.

"I promise," she said, and Iredale thanked her with a look.

There was the briefest of pauses; then she went on—

"On one condition."

"What do you mean?"

Iredale looked his surprise.

"Now you must hear me, George," she went on eagerly. "You have charged me with this thing. You must abide by my time. A day more or less can make little difference to you."

"But I wish to give myself up before others can make the charge."

"Just so. And in the meantime I want your promise not to come to the farm until the"—she paused to make a swift mental calculation—"day after to-morrow at four o'clock in the afternoon."

"Tell me your reason."

"That is my own." The girl was smiling now. Then she again became excited. "Promise, promise, promise! There is no time to lose. Even now I fear we are too late."

Iredale looked dubiously at her. Suddenly he saw her face darken.

"Promise!" she demanded almost fiercely, "or I will not abide by my promise to you."

"I promise."

An expression of relief came into Prudence's eyes, and she stepped towards him and looked up into his face.

"Good-bye, George, dearest."

The man suddenly clasped her in a bear-like embrace and rained passionate, burning kisses on her upturned lips. Then quietly she released herself. She stood away from him holding one of his great hands in both of hers.

"Quick! Now my horse."

Iredale departed, and Prudence was left alone. She stood looking after him thinking, thinking.

"Can I do it?" she asked herself.

Damside City was the nearest telegraph station. It lay nearly thirty-five miles due west of Owl Hoot It was merely a grain station for the district and in no sense a village. She must make that point and so intercept Hervey with a telegraphic message. It was her one chance. In spite of her lover she would buy Hervey's silence, and trust to the future to set the rest straight. She was strong and her horse was good. She must reach the office before it was closed at six o'clock that evening. She calculated it up; she had just three hours in which to cover the distance. She looked out of the window. The wind was blowing from the east; that was good, it would ease the horse. She looked up at the sky, there were a few clouds scudding westwards.

"Yes, I'll do it," she said at last, "if it kills poor Kitty."

A moment later Iredale returned with the mare. The girl waited not a second. Her lover assisted her into the saddle reluctantly. He did not approve this sudden activity on the part of the girl. When she had settled herself she bent down, and their lips met in one long, passionate kiss.

"Good-bye, George."

The man waved his adieu. His heart was too full to speak. She swung her mare round and galloped down the valley to the north. Her object was to clear the valley and then turn off to the west on the almost disused trail to Damside.

Iredale looked after her until the sound of the mare's hoofs died away in the distance. He was filled with wonder at her strange request and her hurried departure. But his speculations brought him to no definite conclusions, and he turned abruptly and called to his man, Chintz.

The man hurried from the stable.

"We have been a little delayed. Is everything ready?" Iredale looked up at the sky, then down at the grizzled face before him.

Chintz nodded.

"Good. Then get to work. Start the first fire directly beyond the graveyard to the east. The wind is getting up steadily. You are sure there are no farms to the west of us, between here and Rosy River?"

The man gave a negative shake of the head.

"That's all right then. There will be no damage done. And the river will cut the fire off. This time to-morrow we shall be homeless wanderers, Chintz—you and I." And the smuggler laughed bitterly.

Then his laugh died out.

"Well, to work. Set the fires going."



CHAPTER XVIII

THE FOREST DEMON PURSUES

Prudence swung her mare out on to the overgrown trail to Damside City. Kitty was a trim-built little "broncho," compact, well-ribbed, and with powerful shoulders and chest. She was just the animal to "stay" and travel fast. The road cut through the heart of the Owl Hoot bush, and ran in a diagonal direction, south-west towards the border. Then it converged with the border trail which skirted the great southern muskeg, and, passing through a broken, stony country, went on to Damside.

The wind was rapidly freshening, and the scudding clouds were quickly changing from white to grey, which, to the girl's practised mind, indicated an immediate change of weather. But she thought little of the matter beyond being thankful that the wind was well behind her, she wished to travel fast, and a "fair" wind is as necessary to the horseman, under such circumstances, as it is to the mariner.

For a time the roughness of the road required her attention. Kitty was surefooted, but the outstanding roots with which her path was lined needed careful negotiation. Presently the trail became wider and its surface more even, and signs of recent usage became apparent. The roots were worn down and the projecting stones had been removed. Neither did it take the girl long to decide whose servants had done these things. On this obscure trail were to be seen many signs of the traffic upon which the owner of Lonely Ranch had been engaged. Now Prudence gave Kitty her head, and the mare travelled at a great pace.

The breeze had chastened the laden air of the pine world. The redolent woods no longer scented the air, which had in consequence become fresh and bracing. For the moment the emergency of her journey had dulled the girl's sensibilities to her surroundings. She looked out upon the beautiful tinted world, but she heeded nothing of what her eyes beheld. Her mind was set upon the object of her journey, and her thoughts were centred round the players in the drama of her life.

How different her life seemed to have suddenly become from that which she had contemplated that morning. A great triumphant joy was with her since her lover had established his innocence to her. Her troubles and anxieties were still many, and the least thing might upset every hope she entertained, but there was always with her the remembrance that George Iredale was innocent, and in that thought she felt a wonderful security. That he was a smuggler was a matter of insignificance. She loved him too well to let such knowledge narrow her estimation of him. She was too essentially of the prairie to consider so trifling a matter. Half the farmers in the country were in the habit of breaking the Customs regulations by cutting wood and hay on Government lands without a permit, and even hauling these things from across the border when such a course suited them, and in every case it was "contraband"; but they were thought no less of by their friends. Iredale was no worse than they, in spite of the fact that his offence carried with it a vastly heavier sentence.

But for the dread that she might be too late to intercept her brother, Prudence would almost have been happy as she raced along that westward-bound trail. She knew her brother's nature well. She knew that he was vindictive, and no doubt her own treatment of him had roused his ire and all the lower instincts of his malignant nature; but she also knew that he loved money—needed money. His greed for gold was a gluttonous madness which he was incapable of resisting, and he would sacrifice any personal feeling provided the inducement were sufficiently large. She meant that the inducement should be as large as even he could wish, and she knew that in this direction his ideas were extensive. Her one trouble, the one thought which alarmed her, was the question of time. If the office were closed when she arrived, her journey would have been in vain, for the operator lived in Ainsley and would have gone home; Hervey would have arrived in Winnipeg, and, by the time the office opened the following morning, the mischief would have been done.

She flicked her mare with the end of her reins and touched her flank with her heel. Kitty responded with a forward bound. The increased speed was all too slow for the rapid thought and deadly anxiety of the girl, but she was too good a horsewoman to press the willing beast beyond a rational gait.

The hardy mare "propped" jerkily as she passed down the sharp side of a dried-out slough. She plunged through a thicket of long grass, and a grey cloud of mosquitoes rose and enveloped horse and rider. The vicious insects settled like a grey cloth upon the heated mare, and Prudence's soft flesh was punctured by hundreds of venomous needles at once. The girl swept the insects from neck and face, heedless of the torturing stings. The mare fretted and raced up the opposite slope, while the girl leant forward in her saddle and sought to relieve the staunch little creature's agony by sweeping the poisonous insects from her steaming coat.

The mare pressed on. Suddenly she threw up her head and snorted violently. Prudence was startled. Something had distracted Kitty's attention, and her wide-set ears were cocked in alarm. Her nose was held high, and again and again she snorted. In consequence her pace was slackened and became awkward. She no longer kept a straight line along the trail, but moved from side to side in evident agitation. Prudence was puzzled and endeavoured to steady the creature. But Kitty was not to be easily appeased. She rattled her bit and mouthed it determinedly, grabbing at the side-bar with an evident desire to secure it in her teeth. The girl kept a tight rein and attempted to soothe her with the tender caress of her hand; but her efforts were unavailing. The ears were now turned backwards, and had assumed that curiously vicious inclination which in a horse is indicative of bad temper or equine terror. Kitty had no vice in her, and Prudence quickly understood the nature of her mare's feelings.

The failure of her soothing efforts alarmed the girl. She sat up and looked about her. In the dense forest there seemed to be no unusual appearance. The trees were waving and bending in the wind, and their groanings had a sadly mournful effect, upon the scene, but otherwise there was nothing strange to be observed. The sky had assumed a leaden hue, and in this direction the prospect was not alluring, but the clouds were fairly high and there was no suggestion of immediate storm.

Suddenly a couple of jack-rabbits darted across the road. The mare "propped," reared, and swung round towards the trees. Prudence brought her up to her work sharply. Then she saw that the rabbits were racing on ahead, down the trail. For the moment her patience gave way, and she dug her heel hard against Kitty's side and the mare plunged forward. But her gait remained unsteady, and in her agitation she kept changing her stride, and once even tripped and nearly fell.

A coyote followed by his mate and two young ones ran out on to the trail and raced along ahead of her. They did not even turn their heads to look at her. Further on a great timber-wolf appeared and trotted along the edge of the woods, every now and then turning its head furtively to glance back.

Then quite suddenly Prudence became conscious of something unusual. She raised her face to the grey vault of the sky and sniffed at the air. A pungent scent was borne upon the wind. The odour of resinous wood, so strong as to be sickly, came to her, and its pungency was not the ordinary scent of the forest about her.

Half-a-dozen kit-foxes dashed out on to the trail and joined in the race, and the "yowl" of the prairie dog warned her that other animals were about. The resinous odour grew stronger every moment, and at last Prudence detected the smell of smoke. She turned her head and looked back; and behind her, directly in her wake, she saw a thin grey haze which the wind was sweeping along above the trees.

She drew her mare up to a stand, and as she sat looking back, a deadly fear crept into her eyes. Kitty resented the delay and reared and plunged in protest The restraint maddened her. And all the time the girl saw that the smoke haze was thickening, and some strange distant sounds like the discharge of heavy ordnance reached her.

The sweet oval face wore a strained expression; her eyes were wide open and staring, and the fear which looked out of them was fear of no ordinary danger. She watched the dull haze as it thickened and rolled on towards her. She saw it rise like great steam-jets and wreath itself upwards as fresh volumes displayed the lower strata. She saw the dull brown tint creep into it as it densified, and she knew that it was smoke. The rest needed no explanation beyond the evidence of her senses. The sickly resinous smell told her what had happened. The forest was on fire!

The thought found vent in a muttered exclamation. Then came an afterthought—

"And the wind is blowing it straight along behind me."

For a moment she gazed about her wildly. She looked to the right and left The forest walls were impassable. She looked back along the trail. The narrow ribbon-like space was filled with a fog of smoke which was even now enveloping her. What should she do? There was nothing for it but to go on. But the fire must be travelling apace in the high wind. Still she stood. It seemed as though for the moment her faculties were paralyzed with the horror of her discovery.

But at last she was moved to action. The mare became troublesome. The girl could no longer keep her still. The distracted animal humped her back and began to show signs of "bucking." Then came a rush of animals along the trail; they came racing for dear life, and their numbers were augmented from the wooded depths which lined their route.

Antelope led the way; with heads thrown up and antlers pressed low down upon their backs they seemed to fly over the sandy soil. Then came the "loping" dogs, coyotes, prairie wolves. Birds of all sorts assembled in one long continuous flight. The animal kingdom of that region of forest seemed to have become united in their mutual terror—wolf and hare, coyote and jack-rabbit, hawks and blackbird, prairie chicken and grey-owl; all sworn enemies in time of calm prosperity, but now, in their terror, companions to the last. And all the time, in the growing twilight of smoke, came the distant booming as of the discharge of great cannon.

The girl leaned forward. She clapped her heel hard against the mare's side, and with a silent prayer joined in the race for life.

She had no exact knowledge of how far these woods extended, or where the break would come which should cut off the fire. The wild beasts were speeding on down the trail, and, with the instinct of her prairie world, she reasoned that in this direction alone must lie safety.

The smoke grew denser and more choking. Her eyes became sore. Under her she felt the mare stretching herself to the utmost of her gait. She came up with many of the racing denizens of the forest, but they did not attempt to move off the trail at her approach. They were beyond the fear of human presence. A more terrible enemy was behind them, pursuing with gigantic strides which demolished space with incredible swiftness.

Every moment the air grew hotter in spite of the mare's best efforts, and Prudence knew that the fire was gaining. Hill or dale made no difference now. It must be on—on, or the devouring monster would be upon them. Kitty never flagged, and with increasing speed her footing became even more sure. A loose line, with body bent well forward to ease the animal, Prudence did all she knew to assist her willing companion; but for every stride the faithful mare took, she knew that the fire was gaining many yards.

The booming had increased to a steady roar, in the midst of which the deep, thunderous detonations came like the peals of a raging storm; the wind rushed headlong forward, the fire bringing with it an almost cyclonic sweep of heated air. The mighty forest giants about her bent like reeds under the terrible force, and shrieked aloud their fears at the coming of the devouring demon.

The mare rushed down into a wide hollow. A culvert bridged a reedy slough. The affrighted beast raced across it. The stream of the animal world swept on about her. She breasted the steep ascent opposite, and Prudence was forced to draw rein. She dared not allow the horse to race up such an incline, even though the fire were within a quarter of a mile of her; she would have been mad to exhaust the faithful creature, which was now her only hope. Even the poor forest creatures, mad as they were with terror, slackened their gait.

At length the hilltop was gained, and a long descent confronted them. Kitty showed no signs of exhaustion yet, and faced her work amidst the rush of refugees with all her original zest. Down into the valley they tore, for the worst of all perils was in pursuit.

The valley stretched away far into the distance; ahead, here, in this hollow, the air was clearer. The hill had shut off the fog of smoke for the moment The refugees now had a smooth run, and a faint glimmer of hope gladdened the heart of the girl.

Without slackening her speed, she looked back at the hill, fearing to see the ruthless flames dart up over the path which her mare's feet had so recently trodden. But the flames had not yet reached the brow, and she sighed her satisfaction. The smoke was pouring over the tree-tops, and, circling and rolling in a tangled mass, was creeping down in her wake, but as yet there were no flames. She looked this way and that at the dark green of the endless woods, the gracious fields of bending pines. She thought of the beauty which must so soon pass away, leaving behind it only the charred skeletons, the barren, leafless trunks, which for years would remain to mark the cruel path of flame.

Suddenly the roar, which had partly died away into a vague distant murmur beyond the hill, burst out again with redoubled fury. Again she looked round, and the meaning was made plain to her. She saw the yellow fringe of flame as it came dancing, chaotic, a tattered ribbon of light upon the brow of the hill; she saw the dense pall of smoke hovering high above it like the threat of some dreadful doom. The black of the forest upon the summit remained for a second, then over swept the red-gold fire, absorbing all, devouring all, in an almost torrential rush down to the woods below.

And now she beheld a sea of living fire as the hills blazed before her eyes. It was as though the whole place had been lit at one touch. The sea rolled on with incredible swiftness, as the tongues of flame licked up the inflammable objects they encountered. The efforts of her mare became puerile in comparison with the fearful pace of the flames. How could she hope to outstrip such awful speed?

On, on raced the mare, and on came the molten torrent. Now the heat was intolerable. The girl leant limply over her faithful horse's neck; she was dizzy and confused. Every blast of the wind burnt her more fiercely as the fire drew nearer. She felt how utterly hopeless were her horse's efforts.

The mare faltered in her stride; it was her first trip. The girl shrieked wildly. She screamed at the top of her voice like one demented. Her nerves were failing, and hysteria gripped her. Kitty redoubled her efforts. The fear of the fire was aggravated by the girl's wild cries, and she stretched herself as she had never done before.

Now it seemed as though they were racing in the heart of a furnace. The whole country was in flames, and the roar and crashing of falling timber was incessant, and the yellow glow was everywhere—even ahead.

Blinded, dazed, the girl was borne on by the faithful Kitty. She no longer thought of what was so near behind her. What little reason was left to her she centred upon keeping her seat in the saddle. An awful faintness was upon her, and everything about her seemed distant.

Kitty alone fought out the battle of that ride; her mistress was beyond all but keeping upon the faithful animal's back. Had she been less exhausted, the girl would have seen what the mare saw. She would have seen the broad stream of the Rosy river ahead, and less than a quarter of a mile away. But she saw nothing; she felt nothing; she cared for nothing but her hold upon the saddle. Thus it was that when she came to the riverside, and the mare plunged from the steep bank into the deep, quick-flowing stream, she knew not what had happened, but, with a strange tenacity, she held to the pummels of her saddle, while her loyal friend breasted the waters.

How they got out of the river Prudence never knew, nor did she fully realize all that had happened when at last the horse and rider again stood on firm ground. And the tough little broncho had covered another mile or more before the girl awoke to the fact that they were now in an open prairie country, and skirting the brink of the great southern muskeg. Then it all came back to her, and, as Kitty kept steadily on, she looked fearfully about her. She saw away in the distance the awful pall, the lurid gleam of the flames; and a heartfelt prayer of thanksgiving went up from that lonely trail for the merciful escape which had been hers. The girl leant over her mare's shoulder and caressed the foaming neck.

"Good Kitty, faithful little mare," she exclaimed emotionally. Then she looked ahead and she remembered all. "But on, girl, on. There is more to do yet."

* * * * *

The telegraph operator at Damside was closing up his little shack. He had just disconnected his instrument and was standing in his doorway gazing out across the prairie to the east, watching the vast clouds of smoke belching from the direction of the woods. All about him was a heavy haze, and a nasty taste of smoke was in his mouth. He looked across to the only other buildings which formed the city of Damside, the grain elevator and the railway siding buildings. His own hut was close beside the latter. The men were leaving their work. Then presently he looked back in the direction of the distant fire.

"'Tain't the prairie," he muttered. "Too thick. Guess the woods are blazin'. That's beyond the Rosy. Can't cross there, so I reckon there's no danger to us. The air do stink here; guess I'll go and git my hand-car and vamoose."

He turned back to the room and put on his hat. Just as he left his doorway to pass over to where his hand-car was standing on the railway track, he brought up to a halt A horse and rider were racing up the trail towards him.

"Hullo, what's this?" he exclaimed sharply. "Maybe it is the prairie."

Prudence drew rein beside him. She had seen her man, and she knew that she was in time. Her joy was written in her face.

"My, but I've had a time," she exclaimed, as she slid down from her saddle. "I thought that fire had got me. Call up Winnipeg, please, Mr. Frances."

"Why, Miss Mailing, have you ridden through that?" asked the operator, pointing to the distant smoke.

"Not through it, but with it distinctly hot upon my heels—or rather my mare's," the girl laughed. "But I want you to send a message for me. It isn't too late for Winnipeg?"

"Late, bless you, no. But what is it? Prairie or forest?"

"Forest," replied the girl shortly. "Where's a form?"

They passed into the hut. Prudence proceeded to write out her message while the man connected up Winnipeg and carried on a short conversation.

"Bad fire," he said.

"Very."

Prudence began to write.

"Just where?"

"Owl Hoot."

"River'll stop it"

"Yes."

"Good."

Prudence went on writing.

"Iredale's ranch burnt out?"

The girl started.

"Don't know."

"Must be."

"Oh!" Then: "Here you are; and do you mind if I wait for an answer?"

"Pleasure." And the man read the message—

"To Hervey Malling, Northern Union Hotel, Winnipeg.

"Return at once. Money awaiting you. Willing to pay the price on your arrival. Do not fail to return at once. The other matter can rest.

"PRUDENCE."

The operator tapped away at the instrument.

* * * * *

Hervey was sitting in the Northern Union Hotel smoking-room. He was talking to a burly man, with a red face and a shock of ginger-grey hair. This was the proprietor of the hotel.

"How long can you give me? I can settle everything by this day month. The harvesting is just finished. I only need time to haul the grain to the elevator. Will that satisfy you?"

The big man shrugged.

"You've put me off so often, Mr. Malling. It's not business, and you know it," he replied gutturally. "Will you give me an order on—your crop?"

He looked squarely into the other's face. Hervey hesitated. He knew that he could not do this, and yet he was sorely pressed for money. However, he made up his mind to take the risk. He thought his mother would not go back on him.

"Very well."

He turned as the bell-boy approached.

"Telegram for you, sir; 'expressed.'"

Hervey took the envelope and tore it open. He read his sister's message, and a world of relief and triumph lit up his face.

"Good," he muttered. Then he passed it to his companion. "Read that. Do you still need a mortgage? I shall set out to-night."

The hotel proprietor read the message, and a satisfied smile spread over his face. It did not do for him to press his customers too hard. But still he was a business man. He, too, felt relieved.

"This relates to——?"

"An ouylying farm of mine which I have now sold."

"Your promise will be sufficient, Mr. Malling. I thought we should find an amicable settlement for our difficulty. You start to-night?"

"Yes."



CHAPTER XIX

THE AVENGER

Alice was standing at the gate of the little front garden. She was talking to her lover, who had just ridden up from the direction of Owl Hoot. Robb had not dismounted, and his face was very serious as he leant down towards her.

"And I never knew a word about it. It's a jolly good thing I obtained the delivery of his bunch of cattle when I did, or goodness knows what would have happened. Well, anyhow I've lost a nice lump. My client, when he heard about the place being for sale, wanted to buy it for a back country for his beeves to winter in. Just my confounded luck. I knew there was a big fire out this way, but I never thought that Iredale was the unfortunate victim. Now I've got to go over to Lakeville to see him—he's staying there, you know, since he was burnt out. I'll come back this way, and if Mrs Malling can put me up for the night, I'll be grateful. My 'plug' won't stand the journey back home. You say Hervey will be along this evening?"

"Yes," replied the girl Then seriously, "What are you going to do?"

"Interview him. There are things about that dog that want explaining. I take it he can explain 'em. I don't easily forget. And I owe some one a deal more than I've yet been able to pay. P'r'aps that dog'll help me to discharge my debt. Good-bye, Al; I must be off or I shan't get back this afternoon."

Robb turned away in his cheerful, debonair manner and rode off. Troubles sat lightly on his stout heart. His effervescent nature never left him long depressed when Fortune played her freakish tricks upon him. He had lost his commission upon the sale of Iredale's land, but he had secured the better deal of the cattle. Therefore he was satisfied. But Robb was a very persistent man in his seemingly haphazard fashion. He had promised himself an interview with Hervey about his dog. He had never forgotten or forgiven the disaster in the mountains, and he believed that Hervey would be able to set him on the track of Zachary Smith, whom he felt certain he had seen at the Winnipeg depot. He hoped so; and, for this purpose, he intended to spend the night at Loon Dyke Farm.