ed. There came to him very
soon the rumble of wheels. Presently a one-horse trap appeared at a
curve of the road. Captain Kilmeny was the driver.

Jack rose noiselessly and thrust the barrel of his rifle through the
bushes. He was within six feet of the road and he waited until his
cousin was almost abreast of him.

"Throw up your hands!"

The captain knew in an instant what he was up against. A masked man with
a rifle in his hands could mean only one thing. Ned Kilmeny was no fool.
He knew when to fight and when to surrender. His hands went into the
air.

"Kick that rifle into the road--with your foot, not with your hands."

The Englishman did as he was told.

"What do you want?" he demanded, looking sharply at the masked bandit.

"I want that satchel beside you. Drop it out."

Again the officer obeyed orders. He asked no questions and made no
comment.

"There's room to turn here by backing. Hit the grit for the Lodge."

After he had faced about, Ned Kilmeny had one word to say before
leaving.

"I know who you are, and there's just one name for your kind--you're an
out and out rotter."

"It's a difference of opinion that makes horse races, captain," answered
the masked man promptly.

Ned Kilmeny, as he drove back to the Lodge, was sick at heart. He came
of a family of clean, honest gentlemen. Most of them had been soldiers.
Occasionally one had gone to the devil as this young cousin of his had
done. But there was something in this whole affair so contemptible that
it hurt his pride. The theft itself was not the worst thing. The miner
had traded on their faith in him. He had lied to them, had made a mock
of their friendly offers to help him. Even the elements of decency
seemed to be lacking in him.

India and Moya were on the veranda when the captain drove up. One glance
at his grim face told them something had gone wrong.

"I've been held up," he said simply.

"Held up!"

"Robbed--with a rifle within reach of my hand all the time."

"But--how?" gasped India.

Moya, white to the lips, said nothing. A premonition of the truth
clutched icily at her heart.

"A masked man stopped me just as I swung round a bend about three miles
from Gunnison. He ordered me to throw out the satchel with the money. I
did as I was told."

"He had you covered with a weapon?" asked India.

"With a rifle--yes."

"Did you--recognize him?" Moya's throat was dry, so that her question
came almost in a whisper.

The