Though Godfrey French's habits could not be called studious his private room was known as his "study," which possibly was as good as any other name. The furnishings of the room were of comfortable solidity. Since the room served as an office in which he transacted such business as he had, there was a desk with many pigeon holes, and backed against the wall stood a small safe.

Outside it was dark, and the rising wind was beginning to sigh with a promise of breeding weather. But in the study, lit by a shade lamp, its owner and Mr. Braden were comfortably seated. Beside them stood a small table bearing a decanter, a siphon and a box of cigars.

Mr. Braden helped himself to the whiskey. His drinking was strictly private, but he indulged rather more frequently than of old, and in larger doses. Somehow he seemed to require them. As for Godfrey French, he took his Scotch as he took his tea, as he had been taking it all his life, and with no more visible effect.

But as Mr. Braden looked at French he seemed to have aged in the last few weeks. The features seemed more prominent, the keen face leaner and more deeply lined, the cold, blue eyes more weary and more cynical.

"You look a little pulled down," Mr. Braden commented. "Perhaps a change would do you good."

"If I could change the last thirty years for the next thirty, it might," French agreed grimly.

"None of us get younger," said Mr. Braden. "I myself begin to feel the—er—burden of the years."

"You're not old. It's the burden of your fat."

"Ha-ha!" Mr. Braden laughed without much mirth. "But what seems to be the matter with you?"

"The life that is behind me," French replied. "You can't eat your cake and have it. But what the devil is the use of cake if you don't eat it? I've eaten my cake and enjoyed it, and I'm quite willing to pay when the times comes. All flesh is as grass, Braden—even such a quantity as yours."

Mr. Braden shifted uneasily. Like many men he found any reference to his ultimate extinction unpleasant.

"Oh, yes, yes, of course we must all pay our debt to nature. No hurry about it, though. We have a number of things to do first."

"We merely think we have," French returned. "It wouldn't matter in the least if we both snuffed out to-night."

"It would matter to me," Mr. Braden declared with evident sincerity.

"But to nobody else. Who would care a curse if you died?"

Offhand, Mr. Braden could not answer this blunt question. French grinned at the expression of his face. "You don't like to face the inevitable, Braden. Well, since it is the inevitable it doesn't matter whether you like it or not." He tossed three fingers of straight liquor down his throat. A shade of color came into his lean cheeks and his eyes brightened. "Have you heard anything fresh lately?"

Mr. Braden shook his head. "Nothing authoritative. I know the Airline people are running trial lines east of here. I had a reply to my letter from the head of their real estate department—McKinley, as near as I could make out the signature—and he says just about half a page of nothing."

"He doesn't want to tip their hand."

"That's what I think, I know they are coming through here, and when they do it will kill this town, because they won't come within fifteen miles of it. Well, in a week or so I'll own the Mackay ranch, and be in shape to make them a definite townsite proposition whenever they do come. There isn't a better natural townsite anywhere."

"No hold-up," French warned. "They won't stand for it. Give them a good slice if they want it."

"I'll do that because I can't help myself. It's lucky I've been able to bring on the sale so soon. You were wrong in thinking it would stop the girl from marrying Mackay, though."

"I thought she would have more sense than to marry him under the circumstances."

"You've heard nothing about the—er—deeds since you gave them to her?" Mr. Braden asked.

"Nothing at all."

"Then I guess it's all right. When I sell out Mackay he'll get out of the district likely. Just as well. He might find out something if he stayed around here."

"He might," French agreed. "He suspects that we split up the biggest part of the price that Winton was supposed to pay for the land."

"He can't prove it."

"And possibly he suspects that you are responsible for his failure to get a new loan. He may even suspect that you had something to do with what happened to his water supply.

"No; but when a man begins to suspect he interprets things which otherwise would carry no meaning. So far he connects us only through the original transaction with Winton. If he knew the truth he'd probably twist your neck like a chicken's."

Mr. Braden moved that threatened part of his anatomy uneasily. "He wouldn't dare to attempt physical violence."

French laughed. "You don't know that young man, Braden, because you're a different breed. I know him, because I've seen his kind before. I made a mistake in quarreling with him."

"I'd like to see him beaten to a pulp," said Mr. Braden viciously, "but after all, it's the money we want. I'm having a devil of a time to keep my head above water, and you're broke."

"Yes, I'm broke," French admitted. "These things are the only chance I see of getting money. When a man reaches my age and faces poverty to which he is unaccustomed, he will do almost anything for money. I want to see the cities and some of the men I knew thirty years ago, before I die. For money to do that I'd give—give—I would—give—"

Something seemed to have gone wrong with Godfrey French's enunciation. It resembled nothing so much as a phonographic record with a running-down motor. He did not stammer, but the words came slowly and then blurred, as if his tongue had lost power. His face, on which a look of blank wonder had come, suddenly contorted, his hand caught at his breast, he threw his head back, chin up, mouth open, gasping.

"What's the matter?" Mr. Braden cried, startled at this sudden transformation. "Are you ill? What—"

"Get—" Godfrey French muttered indistinctly, "get—" He fell back in his chair, inert, sagging arms loose, his face gray, unconscious.

For an instant Mr. Braden stared at his associate horrified. It was as if he had been seized, struck down and throttled by an invisible hand which might claim another victim. Recovering, he poured a glass of liquor with a shaking hand, and shivered as the rim clinked against the unconscious man's teeth. He ran to the door.

"Help!" he shouted wildly to the echoing darkness of the hall. "Come, somebody! Help!"

His call was answered by Kathleen and young Larry.

"Your father!" Mr. Braden quavered. But Kathleen, pushing past him, ran to her father's side.

"He has a hypodermic somewhere," she said. "Look in his room, Larry, quick!" Young Larry bounded for the stairs. "He has had these attacks before, but this is the worst."

"I'll go for the doctor," Mr. Braden offered.

"Larry will go. Your horse isn't fast enough. I wish you'd stay here, if you don't mind. The other boys are out and I'm alone."

But in a moment Larry returned with a hypodermic syringe in its case and a vial of tablets. Kathleen dissolved one of the latter, and baring her father's arm administered the injection with a swiftness and steadiness which commanded Mr. Braden's admiration. "We'd better get him up to his room," she said.

Larry picked up his father's inert body and mounted the stairs. He laid him on his bed.

"I'll look after him now," Kathleen said. "You won't mind waiting till Larry comes back, Mr. Braden? And—ride, Larry!"

Mr. Braden returned to the study. In a few moments he heard the dancing rataplan of the hoofs of an eager, nervous horse, a curse from Larry, the hoof-beats clamored past, steadied to a drumming roar, and died in the distance. Evidently Larry was riding at a pace which probably meant a foundered horse.

Mr. Braden helped himself to a drink. Inadvertently he sat down in the chair which had held Godfrey French, and suddenly realizing that fact vacated it hastily. Outside the wind had increased to a gale, and with it was rain. The window was open and the drawn blind slatted to and fro. Mr. Braden selected another chair and sat down.

But in a moment he arose, went to the door and listened. Leaving it ajar he went to the desk and proceeded to pull out drawer after drawer, rooting among their contents. Not finding what he sought he turned to the safe. He stared at the impassive face of the dial, shook his head, half turned away, and then caught the handle and twisted it. To his amazement the bolts snicked back. Apparently whoever had closed the safe had neglected to turn the knob of the combination.

Mr. Braden burrowed in the safe's contents, and with an exclamation of satisfaction seized a packet of legal-looking documents bound by a rubber band. He stripped off the band and riffled the papers. Apparently he found what he sought, for he selected two documents, replacing the rest. Then, crossing the room to the light he opened the documents and proceeded to verify them by glancing at their signatures.

As he stood he fronted the window; and as he raised his eyes from the perusal the down blind bellied and lifted with a gust of wind. In the enlarged opening thus made Mr. Braden saw or thought he saw, a face. It was but the merest glimpse he had of it, white with the reflected light of the lamp. For an instant it stood out against the darkness, and then the blind dropped back into place, hiding it.

Hastily Mr. Braden shoved the papers in his pocket, while a gentle but clammy perspiration broke out upon his forehead. But had he actually seen a face, or was it some freak of vision? He went to the window, raised the blind and peeped out. It was pitch dark and raining hard, but across from him there was a glint of white, and in a moment he identified it as merely a painted post of a fence glistening in the rain. So that was the "face." Mr. Braden's heart resumed its normal action. He closed the safe, spun the combination, sat down and picking up a paper began to read.

It was more than an hour later when Dr. Wilkes arrived. He came alone, Larry having gone in search of his brothers. Mr. Braden listened to the sound of low voices, of footsteps coming and going on the floor above. Finally Wilkes came down.

"And how is the patient?" Mr. Braden asked.

"Gone out."

"Gone out? You don't mean—"

Dr. Wilkes nodded. Between him and Mr. Braden there was little cordiality.

"What was the—er—cause of death?"

"Valvular cardiac disease of long standing."

"Poor fellow, poor fellow!" Mr. Braden sorrowed, his hand involuntarily caressing the papers in his inside pocket. "You never can—or—that is in the midst of life we are in death. Why, only an hour or so ago he was planning for a trip abroad."

"He's on a longer trip," Wilkes said grimly.

But the pounding of hoofs outside indicated that Larry had found his brothers. In a moment he entered with Gavin and Gerald. Dr. Wilkes did not soften his reply to Gerald's quick question. They stared at him, stupefied. It seemed to Mr. Braden that he should express his sympathy.

"My dear boys," he said, "I assure you that I feel for you in this dark hour. Providence in its inscrutable wisdom has seen fit—"

But Gavin interrupted him.

"Cut it out!" he growled. "We don't want any stuff like that from you!"

Shortly afterward Mr. Braden found himself driving homeward. The rain had turned the road into mud, and was still coming down. It drove though the lap-robe, wetted his knees and trickled down the back of his neck. He was thoroughly uncomfortable. Nevertheless he reflected that Providence in its inscrutable wisdom sometimes arranged things well. Once more his hands pressed the papers in his pocket. Arriving at his apartments he placed them in an old-fashioned iron safe which was operated by a key instead of a combination. There were two keys. One Mr. Braden carried with others on a ring. The other hung upon a single nail driven into the wall immediately behind and concealed by the safe itself. As it was dark there and as the safe was very close to the wall, it seemed a very secure hiding place. On this occasion Mr. Braden used the latter key, because he had changed his wet garments and left his key-ring with them.

But Mr. Braden's trust in Providence might have lessened—or increased—had he known that outside, chinning himself against the window-sill which he had just managed to reach from the rickety steps, hung Turkey Mackay; and that, further, the said Turkey had been a witness to the manner in which the papers had come into the possession of Mr. Braden.