r as he knew, nobody had
left him a farm of any kind. He had promised the whisky runners a
guide on the night of Trooper Shannon's death, and as it was dark when,
muffled in Winston's furs, he met the men--who were, as it happened,
for the most part new adherents, it seemed probable that they had not
recognized him or had any reason to believe it was not Winston himself
who was responsible for the trooper's death. It was not a very unusual
thing for one of the smaller farmers to take a part in a smuggling
venture now and then. Still, the letter left him with an unpleasant
uncertainty.

By and by his companion looked up from his paper again.

"You came from my part of the old country, I think?" he said, "I see a
man of your name has died there lately, and he seems to have left a
good deal of property. Here's a list of the bequests."

He stopped a moment, and with another glance at it handed Courthorne
the paper. "I notice your own name among them, and it's not a common
one."

Courthorne stretched out his hand for the paper, and his face became
intent as he read: "It is with regret many of our readers will hear of
the death of Mr. Geoffrey Courthorne, well known in this vicinity as a
politician with Imperialistic views and a benefactor of charitable
schemes. Among the bequests are . . .and one of the farms in the
Silverdale colony he established in Western Canada to Lance Courthorne."

He laid down the paper and sat rigidly still for a minute or two, while
his companion glanced at him curiously.

"Then," said the latter, "it's you!"

"It is," said Courthorne dryly. "I'm much obliged to you for showing
me the thing, but I'd be still more obliged if you wouldn't worry me
with any questions just now."

His companion made a little gesture of comprehension as he moved away,
and Courthorne leaned back in his chair with his eyes half-closed. He
could now understand his whisky-smuggling comrade's letter, for it was
evident that Winston was going to Silverdale. Indeed, Courthorne could
not see what other course was open to the rancher, if he wished to
preserve his safety. Still, Courthorne was aware that farming, as
carried on at Silverdale, was singularly unprofitable, and he had a
somewhat curious confidence in the honesty of the man he had deceived.
Winston, he decided, no doubt believed that he was drowned the night
Trooper Shannon died, and had been traced as Courthorne by some
Winnipeg lawyer acting for t