nd opened the damper.

"Beastly cold in here," he remarked inconsequently.

"Yes--but, out with it."

Bill stood up and turned his indolent eyes upon his interrogator.

"I wasn't thinking of going--to the mountains."

"Where then?"

"To the Yukon."

"Ah!"

In spite of herself the girl could not help the exclamation.

"Why?" she went on a moment later.

"Well, if you must have it, I shan't be able to last out this
summer--unless a stroke of luck falls to my share."

"Financially?"

"Financially."

"Lablache?"

"Lablache--and the Calford Trust Co."

"The same thing," with conviction.

"Exactly--the same thing."

"And you stand?"

"If I meet the interest on my mortgages it will take away every head of
fat cattle I can scrape together, and then I cannot pay Lablache other
debts which fall due in two weeks' time." He quietly drew out his
tobacco-pouch and rolled a cigarette. He seemed quite indifferent to his
difficulties. "If I realize on the ranch now there'll be something left
for me. If I go on, by the end of the summer there won't be."

"I suppose you mean that you will be deeper in debt."

He smiled in his own peculiarly lazy fashion as he held a lighted match
to his cigarette.

"Just so. I shall owe Lablache more," he said, between spasmodic draws
at his tobacco.

"Lablache has wonderful luck at cards."

"Yes," shortly.

Jacky returned to the table and sat down. She turned the pages of a
stock book idly. She was thinking and the expression of her dark,
determined little face indicated the unpleasant nature of her thoughts.
Presently she looked up and encountered the steady gaze of her
companion. They were great friends--these two. In that glance each read
in the other's mind something of a mutual thought. Jacky, with womanly
readiness, put part of it into words.

"No one ever seems to win against him, Bill. Guess he makes a steady
income out of poker."

The man nodded and gulped down a deep inhalation from his cigarette.

"Wonderful luck," the girl went on.

"Some people call it 'luck,'" put in Bill, quietly, but with a curious
purse of the lips.

"What do you call it?" sharply.

Bunning-Ford refused to commit himself. He contented himself with
blowing the ash from his cigarette and crossing over to the window,
where he stood looking out. He had come there that afternoon with a
half-formed intention of telling this girl something which every girl
must hope to hear sooner or l