Winifred’s suspicions soon were proved correct, for Hastings, who drove over to the Range a day or two after her visit, returned home rather disturbed in temper after what he described as a very unsatisfactory interview with Hawtrey.

“I couldn’t make the man hear reason,” he informed Mrs. Hastings. “In fact, he practically told me that the matter was no concern of mine. I assured him that it concerned me directly as one of the executors of Harry’s will, and I’m afraid I afterwards indulged in a few personalities. I expect that blamed mortgage-broker has got a very strong hold on him.”

Mrs. Hastings looked thoughtful. “You have never told me anything about the will.”

“If I haven’t, it wasn’t for want of prompting,” returned Hastings dryly. “The will was sealed, and handed to me by Harry on the express understanding that it was not to be opened until we had proof that he was dead or until the six months mentioned had expired. If he turned up it would, of course, be handed back to him. He made me promise solemnly that I would not offer the least hint as to its provisions to anybody.”

Mrs. Hastings indulged in a shrug indicating resignation. “In that case I suppose I must be content, but he might have made an exception of—me. Anyway, I think I see how we can put what appears to be a little necessary pressure upon Gregory.” She turned again to her husband rather abruptly. “After all, is it worth while for me to trouble about the thing?”

Hastings was taken off his guard. “Yes,” he said decidedly, “if you can put any pressure on Gregory I guess it would be very desirable to do it as soon as possible.”

“Then you think that Harry may turn up, after all?”

“I do,” said Hastings gravely, “I don’t know why. In any case it’s highly desirable that Gregory shouldn’t fling his property away.”

Mrs. Hastings smiled. “Well,” she said, “I’ll think over it. I’ll probably get Agatha to see what she can do in the first place.”

She saw a trace of uncertainty in her husband’s face.

“As you like,” he said. “Something must be done, but on the whole I’d rather you didn’t trouble Agatha about the matter. It would be wiser.”

Mrs. Hastings asked no more questions. She believed that she understood the situation, and she had Agatha’s interests at heart, for she had grown very fond of the girl. There was certainly one slight difficulty in the way of what she meant to do, but she determined to disregard it, though she admitted that it might, cause Agatha some embarrassment afterward. When she found the girl alone, she sat down beside her.

“My dear,” she said, “I wonder if I may ask whether you are quite convinced that Harry is dead?”

She felt that the question was necessary, though it seemed rather a cruel one.

“No,” replied Agatha calmly, “I can’t quite bring myself to believe it.”

“Then, since you heard what Sproatly said, you would be willing to do anything that appeared possible to prevent Gregory throwing Harry’s money away?”

“Yes,” said Agatha, “I have been thinking about it.” A sparkle of disdainful anger showed in her eyes. “Gregory seems to have been acting shamefully.”

“Then as he won’t listen to Allen, we must get Sally to impress that fact on him.”

“Sally?” questioned Agatha in evident astonishment.

Mrs. Hastings smiled. “I don’t think you understand Sally as well as I do. Of course, like the rest of us, she falls a long way short of perfection, and—though it’s a difficult subject—there’s no doubt that her conduct in leading Gregory on while he was still engaged to you was hardly quite correct. After all, however, you owe her something for that.”

“It isn’t very hard to forgive her for it,” confessed Agatha.

“Well, I want you to understand Sally. Right or wrong, she’s fond of Gregory. Of course, I’ve told you this already, but I must try to make it clear how that fact bears upon the business in hand. Sally certainly fought for him, and there’s no doubt that one could find fault with several things she did; but the point is that she’s evidently determined on making the most of him now she has got him. In some respects, at least, she’s absolutely straight—one hundred cents to the dollar is what Allen says of her—and although you might perhaps not have expected this, I believe it would hurt her horribly to feel that Gregory was squandering money that didn’t strictly belong to him.”

“Then you mean to make her understand what he is doing?”

“No,” replied Mrs. Hastings; “I want you to do it. I’ve reasons for believing that your influence would go further with her than mine. For one thing, I fancy she is feeling rather ashamed of herself.”

Agatha looked thoughtful. She had certainly not credited Sally with possessing any fine sense of honor, but she was willing to accept Mrs. Hastings’ assurance.

“The situation,” she pointed out, “is rather a delicate one. You wish to expose Gregory’s conduct to the girl he is going to marry, though, as you admit, the explanation will probably be painful to her. Can’t you understand that the course suggested is a particularly difficult and repugnant one—to me?”

“I’ve no doubt of it,” admitted Mrs. Hastings. “Still, I believe it must be adopted—for several reasons. In the first place, I think that if we can pull Gregory up now we shall save him from involving himself irretrievably. After all, perhaps, you owe him the effort. Then I think that we all owe something to Harry, and we can, at least, endeavor to carry out his wishes. He told what was to be done with his possessions in a will, and he never could have anticipated that Gregory would dissipate them as he is doing.”

The least reason, as she had foreseen, proved convincing to Agatha, and she made a sign of concurrence.

“If you will drive me over I will do what I can,” she promised.

Now that she had succeeded, Mrs. Hastings lost no time, and they set out for the Creighton homestead next day. Soon after they reached the house she contrived that Sally should be left alone with Agatha. The two girls stood outside the house together when Agatha turned to her companion.

“Sally,” she said, “there is something that I must tell you.”

Sally glanced at her face, and then walked forward until the log barn hid them from the house. She sat down upon a pile of straw and motioned to Agatha to take a place beside her.

“Now,” she observed sharply, “you can go on; it’s about Gregory, I suppose.”

Agatha, who found it very difficult to begin, though she had been well primed by Hastings on the previous evening, sat down in the straw, and looked about her for a moment or two. It was a hot afternoon, dazzlingly bright, and almost breathlessly still. In front of her the dark green wheat rolled waist-high, and beyond it the vast sweep of grass stretched back to the sky-line. Far away a team and a wagon slowly moved across the prairie, but that was the only sign of life, and no sound from the house reached them to break the heavy stillness.

She finally nerved herself to the effort, and spoke earnestly for several minutes before she glanced at Sally. It was evident that Sally had understood all that had been said, for she sat very still with a hard, set face.

“Oh!” Sally exclaimed, “if I’d thought you’d come to tell me this because you were vexed with me, I’d know what to do.”

This was what Agatha had dreaded. It certainly looked as if she had come to triumph over her rival’s humiliation, but Sally made it clear that she acquitted her of that intention.

“Still,” said Sally, “I know that wasn’t the reason, and I’m not mad with—you. It hurts”—she made an abrupt movement—“but I know it’s true.”

She turned to Agatha suddenly. “Why did you do it?”

“I thought you might save Gregory, if I told you.”

“That was all?” Sally looked at her with incredulous eyes.

“No,” answered Agatha simply, “that was only part. It did not seem right that Gregory should go against Wyllard’s wishes, and gamble the Range away on the wheat market.”

She admitted it without hesitation, for she realized now exactly what had animated her to seek this painful interview. She was fighting Wyllard’s battle, and that fact sustained her.

Sally winced. “Yes” she agreed, “I guess you had to tell me. He was fond of you. One could be proud of that. Harry Wyllard never did anything low down and mean.”

Agatha did not resent her candor. Although this was a thing she would scarcely have credited a little while ago, she saw that the girl felt the contrast between Gregory’s character and that of the man whose place he had taken, and regretted it. Agatha’s eyes became dim with unshed tears.

“Wyllard, they think, is dead,” she said, in a low voice. “You have Gregory still.”

Sally looked at her with unveiled compassion, and Agatha did not shrink from it.

“Yes,” she declared, with a simplicity that became her, “and Gregory must have someone to—take care of him. I must do it if I can.”

There was no doubt that Agatha was stirred. This half-taught girl’s quiet acceptance of the burden that many women must carry made her almost ashamed.

“We will leave it to you,” she said.

It became evident that there was another side to Sally’s character, for her manner changed, and the hardness crept back into her face.

“Well,” she admitted, “I’d ’most been expecting something of this kind when I heard that man Edmonds was going to the Range. He has got a pull on Gregory, but he’s surely not going to feel quite happy when I get hold of him.”

She rose in another moment, and saying nothing further, walked back toward the house, in front of which they came upon Mrs. Hastings. Sally looked at Mrs. Hastings significantly.

“I’m going over to the Range after supper,” she said.

Mrs. Hastings drove away with Agatha. She said little to the girl during the journey, but an hour after they had reached the homestead she slipped quietly into Agatha’s room. She found her reclining in a big chair sobbing bitterly. She sat down close beside her, and laid a hand upon her shoulder.

“I don’t think Sally could have said anything to trouble you like this,” she said.

It was a moment or two before Agatha turned a wet, white face toward her, and saw gentle sympathy in her eyes. There was, she felt, no cause for reticence.

“No,” she said, “it was the contrast between us. She has Gregory.”

Mrs. Hastings showed sympathy and comprehension. “And you have lost Harry—but I think you have not lost him altogether. We do not know that he is dead—but even if it be so, it was all that was finest in him that he offered you. It is yours still.”

She sat silent a moment or two before she went on again.

“My dear, it is, perhaps, cold comfort, and I am not sure that I can make what I feel quite clear. Still, Harry was only human, and it is almost inevitable that, had it all turned out differently, he would have said and done things that would have offended you. Now he has left you a purged and stainless memory—one, I think, which must come very near to the reality. The man who went up there—for an idea, a fantastic point of honor—sloughed off every taint of the baseness that hampers most of us in doing it. It was a man changed and uplifted above all petty things by a high chivalrous purpose, who made that last grim journey.”

Agatha realized the truth of this. Already Wyllard’s memory had become etherealized, and she treasured it as a very fine and precious thing. Still, though he now wore immortal laurels, that would not content her when all her human nature cried out for his bodily presence. She wanted him, as she had grown to love him, in the warm, erring flesh, and the vague, splendid vision was cold and remote. There was a barrier greater than that of crashing ice and bitter water between them.

“Oh!” she cried, “I have felt that. I try to feel it always—but just now it’s not enough.”

She turned her face away with a bitter sob, and Mrs. Hastings, who stooped and kissed her, went out of the room. The older woman knew that the girl had broken down at last, after months of strain.

It happened that Edmonds, the mortgage-broker, drove over to the Range, and found Hawtrey waiting for him in Wyllard’s room. It was early in the evening, and he could see the hired men busy outside tossing prairie hay from the wagons into the great barn. The men were half-naked and grimed with dust, but Hawtrey, who was dressed in store clothes, evidently had taken no share in their labors. When Edmonds came in he turned to the money-lender with anxiety in his face.

“Well?” he questioned brusquely.

“Market’s a little stiffer,” said Edmonds.

Edmonds sat down and stretched out his hand toward the cigar-box on the table, while Hawtrey waited with very evident impatience.

“Still moving up?” he asked.

Edmonds nodded. “It’s the other folks’ last stand,” he declared. “With the wheat ripening as it’s doing, the flood that will pour in before the next two months are out will sweep them off the market. I was half afraid from your note that this little rally had some weight with you, and that as one result of it you meant to cover now.”

“That,” admitted Hawtrey, “was in my mind.”

“Then,” remarked his companion, “it’s a pity.”

Hawtrey leaned upon the table with hesitation in his face and attitude. He had neither the courage nor the steadfastness to make a gambler, and every fluctuation of the market swayed him to and fro. He had a good deal of wheat to deliver by and by, and he could still secure a very desirable margin if he bought in against his sales now. Unfortunately, however, he had once or twice lost heavily in an unexpected rally, and he greatly desired to recoup himself. Then, he had decided, nothing could tempt him to take part in another deal.

“If I hold on and the market stiffens further I’ll be awkwardly fixed,” he declared. “Wyllard made a will, and in a few months I’ll have to hand everything over to his executors. There would naturally be unpleasantness over a serious shortage.”

Edmonds smiled. He had handled his man cleverly, and had now a reasonably secure hold upon him and the Range, but he was far from satisfied. If Hawtrey made a further loss he would in all probability become irretrievably involved.

“Then,” he pointed out, “there’s every reason why you should try to get straight.”

Hawtrey admitted it. “Of course,” he said. “You feel sure I could do it by holding on?”

Edmonds seldom answered such a question. It was apt to lead to unpleasantness afterwards.

“Well,” he said, “Beeman, and Oliphant, and Barstow are operating for a fall. One would fancy that you were safe in doing what they do. When men of their weight sell forward figures go down.”

This was correct, as far as it went, but Edmonds was quite aware that the gentlemen referred to usually played a very deep and obscure game. He had also reasons for believing that they were doing it now. It was, however, evident that Hawtrey’s hesitation was vanishing.

“It’s a big hazard, but I feel greatly tempted to hang on,” he said.

Edmonds, who disregarded his remark, sat smoking quietly. Since he was tolerably certain as to what the result would be, he felt that it was now desirable to let Hawtrey decide for himself, in which case it would be impossible to reproach him afterwards. Wheat, it seemed very probable, would fall still further when the harvest began, but he had reasons for believing that the market would rally first. In that case Hawtrey, who had sold forward largely, would fall altogether into his hands, and he looked forward with very pleasurable anticipation to enforcing his claim upon the Range. In the meanwhile he was unobtrusively watching Hawtrey’s face, and it had become evident that in another moment or two his victim would adopt the course suggested, when there was a rattle of wheels outside. Edmonds, who saw a broncho team and a a wagon appear from behind the barn, realized that he must decide the matter without delay.

“As I want to reach Lander’s before it’s dark I’ll have to get on,” he said carelessly. “If you’ll give me a letter to the broker, I’ll send it to him.”

Next moment a clear voice rose somewhere outside.

“I guess you needn’t worry,” it said, “I’ll go right in.”

Then Sally walked into the room.

Edmonds was disconcerted, but bowed, and then sat down again, quietly determined to wait, for he discovered that there was hostility in the swift glance she flashed at him.

“That’s quite a smart team you were driving, Miss Creighton,” he remarked.

Sally, who disregarded this, turned to Hawtrey.

“What’s he doing here?” she asked.

“He came over on a little matter of business,” answered Hawtrey.

“You have been selling wheat again?”

Hawtrey looked embarrassed, for her manner was not conciliatory. “Well,” he admitted, “I have sold some.”

“Wheat you haven’t got?”

Hawtrey did not answer, and Sally sat down. Her manner suggested that she meant thoroughly to investigate the matter, and Edmonds, who would have greatly preferred to get rid of her, decided that as it appeared impossible he would appeal to her cupidity. The Creightons were grasping folk, and he had heard of her engagement to Hawtrey.

“If you will permit me I’ll try to explain,” he said. “We’ll say that you have reason for believing that wheat will go down and you tell a broker to sell it forward at a price a little below the actual one. If other people do the same it drops faster, and before you have to deliver you can buy it in at less than you sold it at. A great deal of money can be picked up that way.”

“It looks easy,” Sally agreed, with something in her manner which led him to fancy he might win her over. “Of course, prices have been falling. Gregory has been selling down?”

“He has. In fact, there’s already a big margin to his credit,” declared Edmonds unsuspectingly.

“That is, if he bought in now he’d have cleared—several thousand dollars?”

Edmonds told her exactly how much, and then started in sudden consternation with rage in his heart, for she turned to Hawtrey imperiously.

“Then you’ll write your broker to buy in right away,” she said.

There was an awkward silence, during which the two men looked at each other until Edmonds spoke.

“Are you wise in suggesting this, Miss Creighton?” he asked.

Sally laughed harshly. “Oh, yes,” she replied, “it’s a sure thing. And I don’t suggest. I tell him to get it done.”

She turned again to Hawtrey, who sat very still looking at her with a flush in his face. “Take your pen and give him that letter to the broker now.”

There was this in her favor that Hawtrey was to some extent relieved by her persistence. He had not the courage to make a successful speculator, and he had already felt uneasy about the hazard that he would incur by waiting. Besides, although prices had slightly advanced, he could still secure a reasonable margin if he covered his sales. In any case, he did as she bade him, and in another minute or two he handed Edmonds an envelope.

The broker took it from him without protest, for he was one who could face defeat.

“Well,” he said, with a gesture of resignation, “I’ll send the thing on. If Miss Creighton will excuse me, I’ll tell your man to get out my wagon.”

He went out, and Sally turned to Hawtrey with the color in her cheeks and a flash in her eyes.

“It’s Harry Wyllard’s money!” she commented, as she met his glance with flashing eyes.