smiling at the stark wonder and joy in her eyes. He saw
the joy vanish--concern and haunting worry came into her eyes.

"They told me that Clay shot--killed--a man yesterday. Is it true?" She
cast a fearing look at the bed where the children lay.

"The damned fools!"

"Then it's true!" She covered her face with her hands, the money in them.
Then she took the hands away and looked at the money in them, loathingly.
"Do you think Clay--"

"No!" he said shortly, anticipating. "That couldn't be. For the man Clay
killed had this money on him. Clay accused him of picking his pocket. Clay
gave the bartender in the _Plaza_ the number of each bill before he saw
them after taking the bills out of the pickpocket's clothing. So it can't
be as you feared."

She murmured incoherently and pressed both hands to her breast. He laughed
and walked to the door.

"Well, you need it, you and the kiddies. I'm glad to have been of some
service to you. Tell Clay he owes me something for cartage. If there is
anything I can do for you and Clay and the kiddies I'd be only too glad."

"Nothing--now," said the woman, gratitude shining from her eyes, mingling
with a worried gleam. "Oh!" she added, passionately; "if Clay was only
different! Can't you help him to be strong, Mr. Trevison? Like you? Can't
you be with him more, to try to keep him straight for the sake of the
children?"

"Clay's odd, lately," Trevison frowned. "He seems to have changed a lot.
I'll do what I can, of course." He stepped out of the door and then looked
back, calling: "I'll put Clay's pony away. Good night." And the darkness
closed around him.

* * * * *

Over at Blakeley's ranch, J. C. Benham had just finished an inspection of
the interior and had sank into the depths of a comfortable chair facing
his daughter. Blakeley and his wife had retired, the deal that would place
the ranch in possession of Benham having been closed. J. C. gazed
critically at his daughter.

"Like it here, eh?" he said. "Well, you look it." He shook a finger at
her. "Agatha has been writing to me rather often, lately," he added. There
followed no answer and J. C. went on, narrowing his eyes at the girl. "She
tells me that this fellow who calls himself 'Brand' Trevison has proven
himself a--shall we say, persistent?--escort on your trips of inspection
around the ranch."

Rosalind's face slowly crimsoned.

"H'm," said Benham.

"I thought Corrigan