Ben Blair

"Well," interrupted Rankin impassively, "Ben's her son. She died awhile ago, you remember, and somehow it seemed to break Blair all up. He wouldn't stay here any longer, and didn't want to take the kid with him, so I took the youngster in. As far as I know, the arrangement will stick."

For a minute there was silence. Scotty observed his host shrewdly, almost sceptically.

"That's all of the story, is it?" he asked at last.

"All, as far as I know."

Scotty continued his observation a moment longer.

"But not all the kid knows, I judge."

The host made no comment, and in a distinctively absent manner the Englishman removed his glasses and cleaned the lenses upon the tail of his Sunday frock-coat.

"By the way,"--Scotty returned the glasses to his nose and sprung the bows over his ears with a snap,--"what day was it that Blair left? Did it happen to be Friday?"

"Yes, Friday."

"And he doesn't intend ever to return?"

"I believe not."

The visitor's eyes flashed swiftly around the room. The two men were alone.

"I think, then, I see through it." The voice was lower than before. "One of my best mares disappeared night before last, and I haven't been able to get trace of a hoof or hair since."

"What?" Rankin was interested at last.

Scotty repeated the statement, and his host eyed him a full half minute steadily.

"And you just--tell of it?" he said at last.

The Englishman shifted uneasily in his seat.

"Yes." Forgetting that he had just polished his glasses, he took them off and went through the process again.

"Yes, I may as well be honest, I've seen a bit of these Westerners about here, and I don't really agree with their scheme of justice. They're apt to put two and two together and make eight where you know it's only four." For the second time he sprung the bows back over his ears. "And when they find out their beastly mistake--why--oh--it's too late then, perhaps, for some poor devil!"

For another half minute Rankin hesitated; then he reached over and grasped the other man by the hand.

"Baker," he said, "you ain't very practical, but you're dead square." And he shook the hand again.

Of a sudden a twinkle came into the Britisher's eyes and he tore himself loose with an effort.

"By the way," he said, "I'd like to ask a question for future guidance. What would you have done if you'd been in my place?"

Rankin stiffened in his seat, and a color almost red surged beneath the tan of his cheeks; then, as suddenly as his companion had done, he smiled outright.