vitation he remained to lunch, and when the ranch
owner excused himself and rode away after the meal he sat for some
time on the verandah, with Mrs. Wasson sewing and his own eyes fixed
speculatively on the mountain range, close, bleak and mysterious.

"Strange thing," he commented. "Here's a man, a book-lover and student,
who comes out here, not to make living and be a useful member of the
community, but apparently to bury himself alive. I wonder, why."

"A great many come out here to get away from something, Mr. Bassett."

"Yes, to start again. But this man never started again. He apparently
just quit."

Mrs. Wasson put down her sewing and looked at him thoughtfully.

"Did the boys tell you anything about the young man who visited Henry
Livingstone now and then?"

"No. They were not very communicative."

"I suppose they wouldn't tell. Yet I don't see, unless--" She stopped,
lost in some field of speculation where he could not follow her. "You
know, we haven't much excitement here, and when this boy was first seen
around the place--he was here mostly in the summer--we decided that he
was a relative. I don't know why we considered him mysterious, unless
it was because he was hardly ever seen. I don't even know that that was
deliberate. For that matter Mr. Livingstone wasn't much more than a name
to us."

"You mean, a son?"

"Nobody knew. He was here only now and then."

Bassett moved in his chair and looked at her.

"How old do you suppose this boy was?" he asked.

"He was here at different times. When Mr. Livingstone died I suppose he
was in his twenties. The thing that makes it seem odd to me is that the
men didn't mention him to you."

"I didn't ask about him, of course."

She went on with her sewing, apparently intending to drop the matter;
but the reporter felt that now and then she was subjecting him to a
sharp scrutiny, and that, in some shrewd woman-fashion, she was trying
to place him.

"You said it was a matter of some property?"

"Yes."

"But it's rather late, isn't it? Ten years?"

"That's what makes it difficult."

There was another silence, during which she evidently made her decision.

"I have never said this before, except to Mr. Wasson. But I believe he
was here when Henry Livingstone died."

Her tone was mysterious, and Bassett stared at her.

"You don't think Livingstone was murdered!"

"No. He died of heart failure. There was an autopsy. But he had a bad
cut on his head.