that they were left alone, the old man turned a look of
appealing helplessness upon her. Such was the rancher's faith in this
wild, impetuous girl that he looked for her judgment on what had passed
in that room with the ready faith of one who regards her as almost
infallible, where human intellect is needed. Nor was the girl, herself,
slow to respond to his mute inquiry. The swiftness of her answer
enhanced the tone of her conviction.

"Set a thief to catch a thief, Uncle John. I guess Horrocks, in spite of
his shifty black eyes, isn't the man for the business. He might track
the slimmest neche that ever crossed the back of a choyeuse. Lablache is
the man Retief has to fear. That uncrowned monarch of Foss River is
subtle, and subtlety alone will serve. Horrocks?" with fine disdain.
"Say, you can't shoot snipe with a pea-shooter."

"That's so," replied John, with weary thoughtlessness. "Do you know,
child, I can't help feeling a strange satisfaction that this Retief's
victim is Lablache. But there, one never knows, when such a man is
about, who will be the next to suffer. I suppose we must take our chance
and trust to the protection of the police."

The girl had walked to the window and now stood framed in the casement
of it. She turned her face back towards the old man as he finished
speaking, and a quiet little smile hovered round the corners of her
fresh ripe lips.

"I don't think Retief will bother us any--at least, he never did before.
Somehow I don't think he's an ordinary rascal." She turned back to the
window. "Hulloa, I guess Bill's coming right along up the avenue."

A moment later "Lord" Bill, lazily cheerful as was his wont, stepped in
through the open French window. The selling up of his ranch seemed to
have made little difference to his philosophical temperament. In his
appearance, perhaps, for now he no longer wore the orthodox dress of the
rancher. He was clad in a tweed lounging suit, and a pair of
well-polished, brown leather boots. His headgear alone pertained to the
prairie. It was a Stetson hat. He was smoking a cigarette as he came up,
but he threw the insidious weed from him as he entered the room.

"Morning, John. How are you, Jacky? I needn't ask you if you have heard
the news. I saw Sergeant Horrocks and old Shylock leaving your veranda.
Hot lot--isn't it? And all Lablache's cattle, too."

A look of deep concern was on his keen face. Lablache might have been
his dearest friend. Jacky smil