t
preceded it."

"It may all be very clear to a man like you, one who makes a study of
crime and mysteries," said Tremaine, ironically, as he gave his mustache
an impatient tug, "but it is far from being so to me. I still call it a
coincidence."

"That is because you haven't taken time to think about it, Tremaine.
Your mind is entirely too good to accept such a theory as coincidence.
In the first place, Mr. Grayson is making a thorough tour of the West,
all the more thorough because these are supposed to be doubtful states.
Now what more natural than his coming to Belleville, which is one of the
most important towns in northern Utah, and, having come, what more
probable than the presence of the Indians at his speech, because such
attractions are rare in Belleville, and the Indian would come to see
what it is that stirs up so much his white friend and brother. Of
course, the Indian in his degenerate days, would take the chance to get
drunk, and, being in a whiskey stupor, he naturally supposed that Mr.
Grayson was chanting a chant of victory, and quite as naturally he
chanted in return his own chant, and also quite as naturally this chant
was about the deed that he considered the greatest of his life. So,
there you are; the chain is complete, the result is natural; any other
result would have been unnatural."

Tremaine laughed.

"You have worked it out pretty well, Hobart," he said, "but I have my
own opinion."

"You are entitled to it," rejoined Hobart, briskly, "but be sure you
keep it to yourself, and then you won't suffer from the criticisms of
the intelligent."

Tremaine laughed good-naturedly, and then avowed his concern about that
beautiful girl, Miss Morgan, who suddenly and under such peculiar
circumstances had been brought face to face with the slayer of her
people; he had perceived from the first her noble qualities, and he felt
for her the deepest sympathy. Tremaine, while a great lover of the
ladies, had in reality less perception than any of the others in affairs
of the heart. He was, perhaps, the only one in the group who did not
know what was going on, and for that reason he talked at length of
Sylvia, no one being able to stop him. He thought it a pity that Sylvia
should be wasted on "King" Plummer, who was a good man, a fine old Roman
soul, but then he had his doubts about Sylvia's love for him--that is,
as a husband. Mr. Plummer was too old for her. Tremaine, by a curious
inconsistency, never