ootgear. By suggestion the moccasin
track at the dam occurred to him. He recalled its straight inner line.
McCrae's moccasined foot would make just such a track. Was it possible
that he, at least, was one of the dynamiters?

Not only possible, Farwell decided, after a moment's reflection, but
probable. The elder man he exonerated mentally. The son, young,
hostile, possessing unlimited nerve, was just the man for such an
enterprise. And if he were concerned in it, and the fact were
ascertained what a devil of a mess it would make!

For a moment he was tempted to test his suspicion by some pointed
allusion, but thought better of it. And shortly after the two men
withdrew, leaving him with Sheila.

"This is a nasty business," said Farwell, after a long pause, reverting
to the former topic. "I wouldn't like it--no matter what turns up--to
make any difference between us."

"There isn't much difference to make," she reminded him.

"No, I suppose not," he admitted, slightly disconcerted. "We're merely
acquaintances. Only"--he hesitated--"only I thought--perhaps--we might
be friends."

Which was going very strong--for Farwell. He said it awkwardly,
stiffly, because he was quite unaccustomed to such phrase. Sheila
smiled to herself in the growing darkness.

"Well, friends if you like. But then we are of different camps--hostile
camps."

"But I'm not hostile," said Farwell. "That's nonsense. Business is
business, but outside of that it cuts no ice with me."

"Doesn't it?"

"Not with me," he declared stoutly. "Not a bit. You didn't blow up the
dam. Even if you had----"

"Even if I had----"

"I wouldn't care," Farwell blurted. "Thank the Lord I'm not
narrow-minded."

Sheila laughed. Her estimate of Farwell did not credit him with
wideness of outlook. But her reply was prevented by the _thud-thud_ of
rapid hoofs. A horse and rider loomed through the dark.

"Hello, Sheila!" the rider called.

"Why, Casey, this is luck!" she exclaimed. Farwell scowled at the
evident pleasure in her voice. "Light down. Better put your horse in
the stable."

"That you, McCrae?" said Dunne, peering at the glow of Farwell's cigar.
"I want to see you about----"

"It's Mr. Farwell," Sheila interjected quickly.

A pause. Casey's voice, smooth, polite, broke it.

"I didn't recognize you, Mr. Farwell. How are you?" He dismounted,
dropped his reins, and came upon the veranda. "Lovely night, isn't it?
Well, and how is everything going