A fortnight had slipped by since the evening Hawtrey had spent with Sally, when Winifred and Sproatly once more arrived at the Hastings homestead. The girl was looking jaded, and it appeared that the manager of the elevator, who had all along treated her with a great deal of consideration, had insisted upon her going away for a few days when the pressure of business which had followed the harvest had slackened. Sproatly, as usual, had driven her in from the settlement.

When the evening meal was finished they drew their chairs close up about the stove, and Hastings thrust fresh birch billets into it, for there was a bitter frost. Mrs. Hastings installed Winifred in a canvas lounge and wrapped a shawl about her.

“You haven’t got warm yet, and you’re looking quite worn out,” she said. “I suppose Hamilton has still been keeping you at work until late at night?”

“We have been very busy since I was last here,” Winifred admitted, and then turned to Hastings. “Until the last week or so there has been no slackening in the rush to sell. Everybody seems to have been throwing wheat on to the market.”

Hastings looked thoughtful. “A good many of the smaller men have been doing so, but I think they’re foolish. They’re only helping to break down prices, and I shouldn’t wonder if one or two of the big, long-headed buyers saw their opportunity in the temporary panic. In fact, if I’d a pile of money lying in the bank I’m not sure that I wouldn’t send along a buying order and operate for a rise.”

Mrs. Hastings shook her head at him. “No,” she said; “you certainly wouldn’t while I had any say in the matter. You’re rather a good farmer, but I haven’t met one yet who made a successful speculator. Some of our friends have tried it—and you know where it landed them. I expect those broker and mortgage men must lick their lips when a nice fat woolly farmer comes along. It must be quite delightful to shear him.”

Hastings laughed. “I should like to point out that most of the farmers in this country are decidedly thin, and have uncommonly little wool on them.” Then he turned to the others. “I feel inclined to tell you how Mrs. Hastings made the expenses of her Paris trip; it’s an example of feminine consistency. She went around the neighborhood and bought up all the wheat anybody had left on hand, or, at least, she made me do it.”

Mrs. Hastings, who had means of her own, nodded. “That was different,” she declared; “anyway, I had the wheat, and I—knew—it would go up.”

“Then why shouldn’t other folks sell forward, for instance, when they know it will go down? That’s not what I suggested doing, but the point’s the same.”

“They haven’t got the wheat.”

“Of course; they wouldn’t operate for a fall if they had. On the other hand, if their anticipations proved correct, they could buy it for less than they sold at before they had to deliver.”

“That,” asserted Mrs. Hastings severely, “is pure gambling. It’s sure to land one in the hands of the mortgage jobber.”

Hastings smiled at the others. “As a matter of fact, it not infrequently does, but I want you to note the subtle distinction. The thing’s quite legitimate if you’ve only got the wheat in a bag. In such a case you must naturally operate for a rise.”

“There’s a good deal to be said for that point of view,” observed Sproatly. “You can keep the wheat if you’re not satisfied, but when you try the other plan the margin that may vanish at any moment is the danger. I suppose Gregory has still been selling the Range wheat, Winifred?”

“I believe we have sent on every bushel.”

Sproatly exchanged a significant glance with Hastings, whose face once more grew thoughtful.

“Then,” remarked Hastings, “if he’s wise he’ll stop at that.”

Mrs. Hastings changed the subject, and drew her chair closer in to the stove, which snapped and crackled cheerfully.

“It must be a lot colder where Harry is,” she said with a shiver.

She flashed a swift glance at Agatha, and saw the girl’s expression change, but Sproatly broke in again.

“It was bad enough driving in from the railroad this afternoon,” he said. “Winifred was almost frozen. That is why I didn’t go round for the pattern mat—I think that’s what Creighton said it was—Mrs. Creighton borrowed from you. I met him at the settlement a day or two ago.”

Mrs. Hastings said that he could bring it another time, and while the rest talked of something else Winifred turned to Agatha.

“It really was horribly cold, and I almost fancied one of my hands was frost-nipped,” she said. “As it happens, I can’t buy mittens like your new ones.”

“My new ones?” questioned Agatha.

“The ones Gregory bought you.”

Agatha laughed. “My dear, he never gave me any.”

Winifred looked puzzled. “Well,” she persisted, “he certainly bought them, and a fur cap, too. I was in the store when he did it, though I don’t think he noticed me. They were lovely mittens—such a pretty brown fur.”

Just then Mrs. Hastings, unobserved by either of them, looked up and caught Sproatly’s eye. His face became suddenly expressionless, and he looked away.

“When was that?” Agatha asked.

“A fortnight ago, anyway.”

Agatha sat silent, and was glad when Mrs. Hastings asked Winifred a question. She desired no gifts from Gregory, but since he had bought the cap and mittens she wondered what he could have done with them. It was disconcerting to feel that, while he evidently meant to hold her to her promise, he must have given them to somebody else. She had never heard of his acquaintance with Sally Creighton, but it struck her as curious that although the six months’ delay he had granted her had lately expired, he had neither sent her any word nor called at the homestead.

A few minutes later Mrs. Hastings took up a basket of sewing and moved towards the door. Sproatly, who rose as she approached him, drew aside his chair, and she handed the basket to him.

“You can carry it if you like,” she said.

Sproatly took the basket, and followed her into another room, where he sat it down.

“Well?” he said, with a twinkle in his eyes.

Mrs. Hastings regarded him thoughtfully. “I wonder if you know what Gregory did with those mittens?”

“I’m rather pleased that I can assure that I don’t.”

“Do you imagine that he kept them?”

“I’m afraid I haven’t an opinion on that point.”

“Still, if I said that I felt certain he had given them to somebody you would have some idea as to who it would probably be?”

“Well,” confessed Sproatly reluctantly, “if you insist upon it, I must admit that I could make a guess.”

Mrs. Hastings smiled in a manner which suggested comprehension. “So could I,” she said. “I shouldn’t wonder if we both guessed right. Now you may as well go back to the others.”

Sproatly, who made no answer, turned away, and he was talking to Agatha when, half an hour later, a wagon drew up outside the door. In another minute or two he leaned forward in amused expectation as Sally walked into the room.

“I’m going on to Lander’s, and just called to bring back the mat you lent us,” she said to Mrs. Hastings. “Sproatly was to have come for it, but he didn’t?”

Sproatly, who said he was sorry, fixed his eyes on her. It was clear to him that Agatha did not understand the situation, but he fancied that Sally was filled with an almost belligerent satisfaction. She was wearing a smart fur cap, and in one hand she carried a pair of new fur mittens which she had just taken off. Sproatly, who glanced at them, noticed that Winifred did the same. Then Mrs. Hastings spoke.

“I don’t think you have met Miss Ismay, Sally,” she said.

Sally merely acknowledged that she had not been introduced, and Sproatly became more sure that the situation was an interesting one, when Mrs. Hastings formally presented her. It was clear to him that Agatha was somewhat puzzled by Sally’s attitude.

As a matter of fact, Agatha, who said that she must have had a cold drive, was regarding the new arrival with a curiosity that she had not expected to feel when the girl first came in. Miss Creighton, she admitted, was comely, though she was clearly somewhat primitive and crude. The long skin coat she wore hid her figure, but her pose was too virile; and there was a look which mystified Agatha in her eyes. It was almost openly hostile, and there was a suggestion of triumph in it. Agatha, who could find no possible reason for this, resented it.

Sally had remained standing, and, as she said nothing further, there was an awkward silence. She was the dominant figure in the room, and the others became sensible of a slight constraint and embarrassment as she gazed at Agatha with unwavering eyes. In fact, it was rather a relief to them when at last she turned to Mrs. Hastings.

“I can’t stop. It wouldn’t do to leave the team in this frost,” said she.

This was so evident that they let her go, and Mrs. Hastings, who went with her to the door, afterwards sat down beside Sproatly a little apart from the rest.

“I’ve no doubt you noticed those mittens,” she commented softly.

“I did,” Sproatly admitted. “I think you can rely upon my discretion. If you hadn’t wanted this assurance I don’t suppose you’d have said anything upon the subject. It, however, seems very probable that Winifred noticed them, too.”

“Does that mean you’re not sure that Winifred’s discretion is equal to your own?”

Sproatly’s eyes twinkled. “In this particular case the trouble is that she’s animated by a sincere attachment to Miss Ismay, and has, I understand, a rather poor opinion of Gregory. Of course, I don’t know how far your views on that point coincide with hers.”

“Do you expect me to explain them to you?”

“No,” answered Sproatly, “I’m only anxious to keep out of the thing. Gregory is a friend of mine, and, after all, he has his strong points. I should, however, like to mention that Winifred’s expression suggests that she’s thinking of something.”

Mrs. Hastings smiled. “Then I must endeavor to have a word or two with her.”

She left him with this, and not long afterwards she and Winifred went out together. When the others were retiring she detained Agatha for a minute or two in the empty room.

“Haven’t the six months Gregory gave you run out yet?” she asked.

Agatha said they had, but she spoke in a careless tone and it was evident that she had attached no particular significance to the fact that Sally had worn a new fur cap.

“He hasn’t been over to see you since.”

The girl, who admitted it, looked troubled. Mrs. Hastings laid a hand upon her shoulder.

“My dear,” she said, “if he does come you must put him off.”

“Why?” Agatha asked, in a low, strained voice.

“For one thing, because we want to keep you.” Mrs. Hastings looked at her with a very friendly smile. “Are you very anxious to make it up with Gregory?” A shiver ran through the girl. “Oh,” she exclaimed, “I can’t answer you that! I must do what is right!”

To her astonishment, Mrs. Hastings drew her a little nearer, stooped and kissed her.

“Most of us, I believe, have that wish, but the thing is often horribly complex,” she said. “Anyway, you must put Gregory off again, if it’s only for another month or two. I fancy you will not find it difficult.”

She turned away, thus ending the conversation, but her manner had been so significant that Agatha, who did not sleep well that night, decided, if it was possible, to act on the well-meant advice.

It happened that a little dapper man who was largely interested in the land agency and general mortgage business spent that evening with Hawtrey in Wyllard’s room at the Range. He had driven around by Hawtrey’s homestead earlier in the afternoon, and had deduced a good deal from the state of it, though this was a point he kept to himself. Now he lay on a lounge chair beside the stove smoking one of Wyllard’s cigars and unobtrusively watching his companion. There was a roll of bills in his pocket with which Gregory had very reluctantly parted.

“In view of the fall in wheat it must have been rather a pull for you to pay me that interest,” he remarked.

“It certainly was,” Hawtrey admitted with a rueful smile. “I’m sorry it had to be done.”

“I don’t quite see how you made it,” persisted the other man. “What you got for your wheat couldn’t have done much more than cover working expenses.”

Hawtrey laughed. He was quite aware that his visitor’s profession was not one that was regarded with any great favor by the prairie farmers, but he was never particularly cautious, and he rather liked the man.

“As a matter of fact, it didn’t, Edmonds,” he confessed. “You see, I practically paid you out of what I get for running this place. The red wheat Wyllard raises generally commands a cent or two a bushel more from the big milling people than anything put on the market round here.”

Edmonds made a sign of agreement. He had without directly requesting him to do so led Hawtrey into showing him around the Range that afternoon, and having of necessity a practical knowledge of farming he had been impressed by all that he had noticed. The farm, which was a big one, had evidently been ably managed until a recent date, and he felt the strongest desire to get his hands on it. This, as he knew, would have been out of the question had Wyllard been at home, but with Hawtrey, upon whom he had a certain hold, in charge, the thing appeared by no means impossible.

“Oh, yes,” he replied. “I suppose he was reasonably liberal over your salary.”

“I don’t get one. I take a share of the margin after everything is paid.”

Edmonds carefully noted this. He was not sure that such an arrangement would warrant one in regarding Hawtrey as Wyllard’s partner, but he meant to gather a little more information upon that point.

“If wheat keeps on dropping there won’t be any margin at all next year, and that’s what I’m inclined to figure on,” he declared. “There are, however, ways a man with nerve could turn it to account.”

“You mean by selling wheat down.”

“Yes,” said Edmonds, “that’s just what I mean. Of course, there is a certain hazard in the thing. You can never be quite sure how the market will go, but the signs everywhere point to still cheaper wheat next year.”

“That’s your view?”

Edmonds smiled, and took out of his pocket a little bundle of market reports.

“Other folks seem to share it in Winnipeg, Chicago, New York, and Liverpool. You can’t get behind these stock statistics, though, of course, dead low prices are apt to cut the output.”

Hawtrey read the reports with evident interest. All were in the same pessimistic strain, and he could not know that the money-lender had carefully selected them with a view to the effect he hoped to produce. Edmonds, who saw the interest in Hawtrey’s eyes, leaned towards him confidentially when he spoke again.

“I don’t mind admitting that I’m taking a hand in a big bear operation,” he said. “It’s rather outside my usual business, but the thing looks almost certain.”

Hawtrey glanced at him with a gleam in his eyes. There was no doubt that the prospect of acquiring money by an easier method than toiling in the rain and wind appealed to him.

“If it’s good enough for you it should be safe,” he remarked. “The trouble is that I’ve nothing to put in.”

“Then you’re not empowered to lay out Wyllard’s money. If that was the case it shouldn’t be difficult to pile up a bigger margin than you’re likely to do by farming.”

Hawtrey started, for the idea had already crept into his mind.

“In a way, I am, but I’m not sure that I’m warranted in operating on the market with it.”

“Have you the arrangement you made with him in writing?”

Hawtrey opened a drawer, and Edmonds betrayed no sign of the satisfaction he felt when he was handed an informally worded document. He perused it carefully, and it seemed to him that it constituted Hawtrey a partner in the Range, which was satisfactory. He looked up thoughtfully.

“Now,” he said, “while I naturally can’t tell what Wyllard contemplated, this paper certainly gives you power to do anything you think advisable with his money. In any case, I understand that he can’t be back until well on in next year.”

“I shouldn’t expect him until late in the summer, anyway.”

There was silence for a moment or two, and during it Hawtrey’s face grew set. It was unpleasant to look forward to the time when he would be required to relinquish the charge of the Range, and of late he had been wondering how he could make the most of the situation. Then Edmonds spoke again.

“It’s almost certain that the operation I suggested can result only one way, and it appears most unlikely that Wyllard would raise any trouble if you handed him several thousand dollars over and above what you had made by farming. I can’t imagine a man objecting to that kind of thing.”

Hawtrey sat still with indecision in his eyes for half a minute, and Edmonds, who was too wise to say anything, leaned back in his chair. Then Hawtrey turned to the drawer again with an air of sudden resolution.

“I’ll give you a check for a couple of thousand dollars, which is as far as I care to go just now,” he announced with studied carelessness.

He took a pen, and Edmonds watched him with quiet amusement as he wrote. As a matter of fact, Hawtrey was in one respect, at least, perfectly safe in entrusting the money to him. Edmonds had deprived a good many prairie farmers of their possessions in his time, but he never stooped to any crude trickery. He left that to the smaller fry. Just then he was playing a deep and cleverly thought-out game.

He pocketed the check that Hawtrey gave him, and then discussed other subjects for half an hour or so before he rose to go.

“You might ask them to get my team out. I’ve some business at Lander’s and have ordered a room there,” he said. “I’ll send you a line when there’s any change in the market.”