sturbed; the wardrobe of the two
women had apparently been left untouched. Yet she was sure that some
one had been prowling in there in the night. She gave up the puzzle at
last and went back to her breakfast, but before the company arrived in
the big, black automobile, she had found a stout hasp and two staples,
and had fixed the door which led from her room into the kitchen so that
she could fasten it securely on the inside.

Jean did not tell Lite about the footsteps. She was afraid that he
might insist upon her giving up staying at the Lazy A. Lite did not
approve of it, anyway, and it would take very little encouragement in
the way of extra risk to make him stubborn about it. Lite could be
very obstinate indeed upon occasion, and she was afraid he might take a
stubborn streak about this, and perhaps ride over every night to make
sure she was all right, or do something equally unnecessary and foolish.

She did not know Lite as well as she imagined, which is frequently the
case with the closest of friends. As a matter of fact, Jean had never
spent one night alone on the ranch, even though she did believe she was
doing so. Lite had a homestead a few miles away, upon which he was
supposed to be sleeping occasionally to prove his good faith in the
settlement. Instead of spending his nights there, however, he rode
over and slept in the gable loft over the old granary, where no one
ever went; and he left every morning just before the sky lightened with
dawn. He did not know that Jean was frightened by the sound of
footsteps, but he had heard the man ride up to the stable and dismount,
and he had followed him to the house and watched him through the
uncurtained windows, and had kept his fingers close to his gun all the
while. Jean did not dream of anything like that; but Lite, going about
his work with the easy calm that marked his manner always, was quite as
puzzled over the errand of the night-prowler as was Jean herself.

For three years Lite had lain aside the mystery of the footprints on
the kitchen floor on the night after the inquest, as a puzzle he would
probably never solve. He had come to remember them as a vagrant
incident that carried no especial meaning. But now they seemed to
carry a new significance,--if only he could get at the key. For three
years he had gone along quietly, working and saving all he could, and
looking after Jean in an unobtrusive way, believing that Aleck was
guilty,--and bei