g of their coats, their mouths, their ears, and in
slings scattered over the body. The ore is pounded so that it does not
bulge."

"Perhaps I'm doing Mr. Kilmeny an injustice, then. Very likely he did
get away with two thousand at one time," Verinder jeered with an
unpleasant laugh.

"Yes, let's think the worst of everybody that we can, Mr. Verinder,"
came Moya's quick scornful retort.

The Croesus of Goldbanks stood warming himself with his back to the
grate, as smug and dapper a little man as could be found within a day's
journey.

"Very good, Miss Dwight. Have it your own way. I'm not a bally prophet,
you know, but I'll go this far. Your little tin hero is riding for a
fall. It's all very well for him to do the romantic and that sort of
piffle, by Jove, but when you scrape the paint off he's just a receiver
of stolen property and a common agitator. Don't take my word for it. Ask
Bleyer." Without looking at him he gave a little jerk of the head toward
his superintendent. "Who is the most undesirable citizen here, Bleyer?
Who makes all the trouble for the companies?"

Bleyer shook his head. "I can't back my opinion with proof."

"You know what people say. Whom do the men rely on to back them whenever
they have trouble with us? Out with it."

"Kilmeny is their king pin--the most influential man in camp."

"Of course he is. Anybody could tell to look at him that he is a leader.
Does it follow he must be a criminal?" Moya demanded abruptly.

The superintendent smiled. He understood what was behind that
irritation. "You're a good friend, Miss Dwight."

"It's absurd that I am. He did nothing for Joyce and me--except fight
for us and see that we were sheltered and fed and brought home safely.
Why shouldn't we sit still and let his reputation be torn to tatters?"

Bluecher bore down upon the field of Waterloo. "Of course we're 'for' Mr.
Kilmeny, as you Yankees say. I don't care whether he is a highgrader or
not. He's a gentleman--and very interesting." Joyce nodded decisively,
tilting a saucy chin toward Verinder. "We're _for_ him, aren't we,
Moya?"

Lady Farquhar smiled and let her embroidery drop to the table as she
rose. "I like him myself. There's something about him that's very
attractive. I do hope you are wrong, Mr. Bleyer. He does not look like
an anarchist and a thief."

"That is not the way he would define himself. In this community
highgrading isn't looked on as theft. Last year our sheriff was
sus