nd that might disturb the sleeping invalid and Mary Hope. He
dressed himself carefully as though he were going to meet guests.
The set look was still in his face when he stood before the dresser
mirror, knotting the blue tie that harmonized best with the shirt he
wore. He pulled the tan leather belt straight, so that the plain
silver buckle was in the middle, took something off the bed and pushed
it carefully inside the waistband of his trousers, on the left side,
taking great care that its position was right to the fraction of an
inch. He took his tan Oxford shoes in his hand, pulled open his door
as quietly as any burglar could have done, stepped down upon the
ground and put on the shoes, lacing them carefully, tucking in the bow
ends fastidiously.

Then, moving very softly, he went down the path to the bunk-house,
opened the door and walked in, never dreaming that Belle was no more
than a dozen steps behind him, or that, when he closed the door, she
was standing just outside, listening.

The blood of his actress mother carried him insouciantly over the
pregnant silence that received him. He leaned negligently against the
wall beside the closed door, his arms folded, his eyebrows tilted
upward at the inner ends, his lips smiling quizzically.

"I've another funny story to tell you fellows," he drawled, just
before the silence became awkward. "Glad you're all here--it's too
good to keep, too good to waste on part of the outfit. I want you all
to get the kick. You'll enjoy it--being cattlemen. It's a joke that
was pulled on an outfit down in Arizona."

Like a trained monologist, he had them listening, deceived by his
smiling ease, waiting to hear the joke on the Arizona outfit. Tom and
Al, at the table with some papers before them, papers that held
figures and scribbled names, he quite overlooked. But they, too,
listened to the story, were imposed upon by that quizzical smile, by
his mimicry, by the bold, swift strokes with which he painted word
pictures which their imaginations seized upon as fast as they were
made.

It was Tom who first felt a suspicion of Lance's purpose, and shifted
his position a little, so that his right hand would be free. As he did
so, without looking toward him Lance's left fingers began tapping,
tapping the muscles of his right arm; his right hand had sagged a
little. Tom's eyebrows pulled together. Quite well he knew that pose.
He waited, listened with closer attention to the story.

L