ing him to the penitentiary."

She returned to her seat in the window, and when she spoke again her
whole manner had undergone a further change. It was full of that
womanly gentleness which fitted her so well.

"Mr. Bryant," she said, with a pathetic smile lighting her handsome
features, and softening them to an almost maternal tenderness, "I'm
fonder of Charlie than any creature in the world--except Helen. Don't
make any mistake. I'm not in love with him. He's just a dear, dear,
erring, ailing brother to me. He can't, or won't help himself. What
can we do to save him? Oh, I'm glad you've come here. It's taken a
load from my heart. What--what can we do?"

Again the big fingers raked through the man's wet hair.

"I--wish I knew," Bill lamented helplessly. But a moment later a
quick, bright look lit his big blue eyes. "I know," he almost shouted.
"Let's hunt this gang down--ourselves."

Kate's gaze had been steadily fixed upon the far side of the valley,
where Charlie Bryant's house stood. Now, in response to the man's wild
suggestion, it came slowly back to his face.

"I hadn't thought of--that," she said, after a pause.

In a wild burst of enthusiasm Bill warmed to his inspiration.

"No," he cried. "Of course not. That's because you aren't used to
scrapping." He laughed. "But why not? I'll do the scrapping, and
you--you just do the thinking. See? We'll share up. It's dead easy."

"Yes--it would be dead easy," Kate demurred.

"Easy? Of course it's easy. I'm pretty hot when it comes to a scrap,"
Bill ran on with added confidence. "And a bunch of whisky-runners
don't amount to a heap anyway."

Suddenly Kate rose from her seat. She moved a step toward him and laid
one brown hand gently on his arm. She was smiling as she had smiled at
the thought of her regard for this man's brother. There was something
almost motherly now in her whole attitude.

"You're a big, brave soul, and like all brave souls you're ready at
all times to act--act first and think afterwards," she said very
gently. "You said I was to think. Let me think now. You see, I know
this place. I know this class of man. It's the life of the police to
deal with these whisky-runners, and they--they can do nothing against
them. Then what are we, you, with your brave inexperience, I, with my
woman's helplessness, going to do against them? Believe me, the men
who carry on this traffic are absolutely desperate creatures who would
give their lives at any mo