em. They
changed their name and went on, but Ralph had been a student rather
than an athlete; he was not strong enough to attempt the rough work
which was all that presented itself, and their resources were gone.

"They drifted at last into Topaz Gulch, Nevada, where Ralph obtained a
position as time-keeper at the Yellow Streak gold mine, and where a
little daughter was born to them, whom they named 'Willa'."

Billie started, and her lips opened, but no words came. Jim Baggott,
too, was silent, his jaw agape and honest eyes almost popping from
their sockets.

"When the baby was two years old, Ralph Murdaugh died, after a long
illness which ate up the little they had been able to save. His wife,
destitute and unable to support the child in any other fashion, turned
to her old profession; she became what was known as a song-and-dance
artiste at a hall named for its owner, 'Jake's'.

"Two years later, the dance-hall burned and Violet Ashton, as she
called herself once more, was lost in the holocaust. As a thoroughly
good woman, she had always been held in the utmost esteem by the
community, rough as it was, and the child, Willa, had become a great
favorite, but on her mother's death the problem of caring for her
arose. There were no women in the town of the proper character to be
trusted with her future, and the camp was in a quandary.

"Among what might be called the shifting population, was a
peripatetic--ah, gambler, who traveled under the sobriquet of
'Gentleman Geoff'. He had set up a shack where he operated a
roulette-wheel and faro-bank, and was very much attached to the child.
Can you not surmise the rest? He adopted her, without legal form, and
took her with him on his wanderings."

"Then I--I----" Billie stammered, aghast. "I am not----"

"You are Willa Murdaugh."

"Holy Christopher!" Jim Baggott passed his hand across his dazed
forehead, and then all three were silent for a space.

The girl sat as if in a dream, her face flushed, her eyes vacant and
fixed, and North forebore to intrude upon her reverie. At length she
roused herself and turned to him with quick decision.

"If I am what you say, you must know my age. How old am I?"

"Nineteen. You will be twenty on the sixth of January, next."

"And now," she drew a deep breath, "will you tell me, please, why you
have taken the trouble to find me?"

"I was about to explain. Your grandfather, Giles Murdaugh, nursed his
resentment for a