As Hervey entered the valley of the ranch he listened for the warning owl cries. To-day, however, there were none. He smiled to himself as he noted the fact, for he knew their origin; he knew their object. He understood that these cries were the alarm of sentries stationed at certain points to warn those at the ranch of the approach of strangers. He knew, too, that they were used as signals for other things. And he admired the ingenuity of Iredale in thus turning the natural features of the valley to his own uses. Rain was beginning to fall in great drops, and the thunder of the rising storm had already made itself heard. He urged his horse forward.

Few men can embark on a mission of hazard or roguery without some feelings of trepidation. And Hervey was no exception to the rule. He experienced a feeling of pleasurable excitement and anticipation. There was sufficient uncertainty in his mission to make him think hard and review his powers of attack with great regard for detail. There must be no loophole of escape for his victim.

On the whole he was well satisfied. But he was not unprepared for failure. During his acquaintance 227 with Iredale he had learned that the master of Lonely Ranch was not easily trifled with, neither was he the man to accept a tight situation without making a hot fight for it. It was just these things which gave Hervey the gentle qualms of excitement as he meditated upon the object of his journey. He thought of the large sums of money he had borrowed from this man, and the ease with which they had been obtained. He remembered the kindly ways and gentle manner of this reserved man, and somehow he could not get away from the thought of the velvet glove.

But even as he thought of it he laughed. There was no getting away from the facts he possessed, and if it came to anything in the shape of physical resistance, well, he was not unprepared. There was a comfortable feeling about the heavy jolt of the six-chambered “lawyer” in his pocket.

The valley seemed much more lonely than usual. The horrid screeching of the watchful sentries would almost have been welcome to him. The forest was so dark and still. Even the falling raindrops and the deep rolling thunder had no power to give the place any suggestion of life. There was a mournful tone over everything that caused the rider to glance about him furtively, and wish for a gleam of the prairie sunlight.

At length he drew up at the house. There was no one about. A few cattle were calmly reposing in the corrals. There was not even the sharp bark of a dog to announce his arrival. As Hervey drew up he looked to see Iredale come to the door, for he knew the rancher had returned from his wanderings; 228 but the front door remained shut, and, although the window of the sitting-room was wide open, there was no sign of any occupant within the room. He dismounted and stood thinking for a moment. Then he raised his voice and called to Chintz.

His summons was repeated before the man’s ferret face appeared round a corner of the building. The little fellow advanced with no show of alacrity. Iredale had told him nothing about any expected visitor. He was not quite sure what to do.

By dint of many questions and replies, which took the form of nods and shakes of the head on the part of Chintz, Hervey learnt that Iredale had gone over to Loon Dyke, but that he would be back to supper.

“Then I’ll wait for him,” he said decidedly. “You can take my horse. I’ll go inside.”

The head man took the horse reluctantly and Hervey passed into the house.

For a long time he stood at the open window watching the storm. How it raged over the valley! The rain came down in one steady, hissing deluge, and the hills echoed and re-echoed with the crashing thunder. The blinding lightning shot athwart the lowering sky till the nerves of the watcher fairly jumped at each successive flash. And he realized what a blessing the deluge of rain was in that world of resinous timber. What might have been the consequences had the storm preceded the rain? Hardened as he was to such things, even Hervey shuddered to think.

Wild as was the outlook, the waiting man’s thoughts were in keeping with his surroundings, for more relentless they could not well have been. Iredale’s 229 money-bags should surely be opened for him that night before he returned home. He would levy a heavy toll for his silence.

His great dark eyes, so indicative of the unrestrained nature which was his, burned with deep, cruel fires as he gazed out upon the scene. There was a profoundness, a capacity for hellishness in their expression which scarcely belonged to a sanely-balanced mind. It was inconceivable that he could be of the same flesh and blood as his sister, and yet there was no doubt about it. Perhaps some unusually sagacious observer would have been less hard to convince. Hervey was bad, bad all through. Prudence was good. Swayed by emotion the girl might have displayed some strange, hidden, unsuspected passionate depths, as witness her feelings at her dying lover’s bedside. Her rage at the moment when she realized that he had been murdered was indescribable. The hysterical sweep of passion which had moved her at that moment had been capable of tragic impulse, the consequences of which one could hardly have estimated. But her nature was thoroughly good. Under some sudden stress of emotion, which for the moment upset the balance of reason, a faint resemblance to the brother might be obtained. But while Hervey’s motives would be bad, hers would have for their primary cause a purpose based upon righteousness. The man needed no incentive to sway his dispositions. He had let go his hold upon the saving rock, now he floated willingly upon the tide of his evil disposition. He preferred the broad road to Hell to the narrow path of Righteousness. It may not always have been so.

The storm abated with the suddenness of its kind. During Hervey’s long wait Chintz did not leave him entirely alone. Several times, on some trivial pretext the little man visited the sitting-room. And his object was plainly to keep an eye upon his master’s unbidden guest. At last there came a clatter of galloping hoofs splashing through the underlay of the forest, and presently Iredale pulled up at the door.

Hervey watched the rancher dismount. And his survey was in the nature of taking the man’s moral measure. He looked at the familiar features which he had come to know so well; the easy, confident movements which usually characterized Iredale; the steady glance, the quiet undisturbed expression of his strong face. The watching man saw nothing unusual in his appearance, nothing to give him any clue; but Hervey was not a keen observer. Only the most apparent change would have been seen by him; the subtler indications of a disturbed mind were beyond his ken. Iredale seemed to be merely the Iredale he knew, and as he watched his lips parted with a sucking sound such as the gourmand might make in contemplating a succulent dish.

Iredale came in. Hervey met him at the door of the sitting-room, and his greeting was cordial, even effusive.

“How are you, George? I knew you were to be back to-day. Jolly glad you’ve returned. Quite missed you, you know. By Jove! what a storm. Wet?”

“A bit; nothing to speak of. They told me at the farm you were over here.”

Iredale looked quickly round the room. His survey was not lost upon his visitor. Then he went on––

“Chintz looked after you? Had any refreshment? Whisky?”

“Chintz looked after me! He looked in every now and then to see what I was doing.” Hervey laughed unpleasantly. “Yes, I can do with a gentle ‘four-fingers’; thanks.”

Iredale produced a decanter and glasses and a carafe of water. Then he excused himself while he went to change his clothes. While he was gone Hervey helped himself to a liberal measure of the spirit. He felt that it would be beneficial just then. His host’s unconcerned manner was a little disconcerting. The rancher seemed much harder to tackle when he was present.

Presently Iredale returned, and, seating himself in a deck-chair, produced a pipe, and pushed his tobacco jar over to his visitor. He was wondering what Hervey had come over for. He had no wish for his company just then. He had hoped to spend this evening alone. His mind was still in a state of feverish turmoil. However, he decided that he would get rid of the man as quickly as the laws of hospitality would allow.

A silence fell whilst the rancher waited to hear the object of the visit. The other refused to smoke, but Iredale lit his pipe and smoked solemnly. His face was, if possible, more serious than usual. His eyes he kept half veiled. Hervey cast about in his mind for the opening of his attack. He seated himself on the edge of the table and looked out of the window. He raised his eyes to the leaden sky, then he withdrew 232 his gaze and looked upon the floor. He swung one leg to and fro, as he leant sideways and supported his attitude with a hand resting upon the table. At length, as the silence continued, and Iredale presently raised his eyes and stared straight at him, he turned to the decanter and helped himself to another drink. Then he set his glass down with a heavy hand.

“Good tack, that,” he observed. “By the bye, where have all your owls departed to? Are they like the ducks, merely come, pause, and proceed on their migratory way? Or perhaps”––with a leer––“they only stand on sentry in the valley when––when you require them to.”

Iredale permitted the suspicion of a smile. But there was no geniality in it; on the contrary, it was the movement of his facial muscles alone. Hervey had touched upon delicate ground.

“Did they not welcome you with their wonted acclamation?” he asked, removing his pipe from his lips, and gently pressing the ash down into the bowl with his finger-tip.

The other grinned significantly. He had plunged, and now he felt that things were easier. Besides, the spirit had warmed him.

“That’s a real good game you play, George, old man. The imitation is excellent. I was deceived entirely by it. It was only the other night that I learned that those fearful screech-owls were human. Most ingenious on your part. You are well served.”

Iredale never moved. He smoked quite calmly. His legs were crossed and the smile still remained about his mouth. Only his eyes changed their expression, 233 but this was lost upon Hervey, for they were half closed.

“I don’t think I quite understand. Will you explain?” The rancher spoke very deliberately, his voice was well modulated but cold.

Hervey laughed boisterously to cover a slight nervousness. This attitude of Iredale’s was embarrassing. He had anticipated something different.

“Is there any need of explanation?” he asked, when his forced hilarity had abruptly terminated. “The only thing which puzzles me is that you’ve kept it up so long without being discovered.”

There was a long pause. Then Iredale removed his pipe from his mouth, knocked it out upon the heel of his boot, and returned it to his pocket. Then he rose from his seat and stood squarely before the other.

“Don’t let us beat about the bush,” he said. “I think plain speaking is best––in some cases. Now, what have you to say?”

Hervey shrugged his shoulders. His dark eyes avoided the other’s gaze; the steely flash in Iredale’s grey eyes was hard to confront.

“A good deal,” he said, with raucous intonation. “The smuggling of Chinese and consequently opium is a profitable trade. There’s room for more than one in it.”

“Go on.”

Iredale’s tone was icy.

“Of course I am not the man to blow a gaff like this. There’s too much money in it, especially when worked on extensive lines, and when one is possessed of such an ideal spot as this from which to operate 234 That was a positive stroke of genius of yours in selecting the graveyard as a hiding-place. I suppose now that place is honeycombed with cellars for the storage of––of––yellow. Must be, from the number of ‘yellow-devils’ I saw come out of the grave the other night. My, but you’re slick, Iredale; slick as paint. I admire you immensely. Who’d have thought of such a thing? I tell you what, you were never intended for anything but defeating the law, George, my boy. We could do a lot together. I suppose you aren’t looking for a partner?”

Iredale’s face wore an almost genial expression as he replied. The rancher’s tones were so cordial that Hervey congratulated himself upon the manner in which he had approached the subject.

“Well, to tell you the truth, I wasn’t,” he said. “As a matter of fact, you must have seen me despatching my last cargo of––yellow. Why? Were you thinking of starting in the business?”

“That is my intention.”

“Is?”

“Yes, is.” Hervey’s tone was emphatic, and his attitude truculent.

“Ah! are you prepared to buy this place?” Iredale went on. “I can easily hand you over my connection.”

“Buy?” Hervey thought this man was dense. “Why, I haven’t two cents to my name to buy anything with. No, I don’t think there will be any buying and selling between us, George Iredale.”

“Then what do you propose? We may as well come to a definite arrangement.”

The rancher’s tone was peculiar.

“We’ll run this thing for all it’s worth. Hang to it as long as there’s a cent to be made.”

Hervey helped himself to more whisky. His self-satisfaction was immense. He had not thought that Iredale would have been so easy to handle.

“Um. A very nice, comfortable arrangement––for you.” Iredale moistened his lips slowly. “You’ll sup the juice while I squeeze the orange for you. No, friend Hervey, I’m not dealing.”

“But you must!”

“Must?”

“Yes; don’t be a fool. It means more money to you, and I shall share in the profits.”

“If I wanted to make more money I could continue in the business alone. I am not here to make money for you.”

Iredale stared straight into the face before him. His grey eyes seemed to pierce through and through his companion. Hervey moved from his position. Iredale’s attitude was coldly uncompromising.

“Then you refuse my offer?”

“Most emphatically.”

Hervey was inclined to show his teeth. However, he checked the impulse and spoke in a conciliating tone.

“There is another alternative. Your fortune is very large. I want fifty thousand dollars.”

Iredale’s face relaxed into a genuine smile.

“Your demands are too modest,” he said ironically, “Anything else?”

The other’s eyes looked dangerous. The lurid depths were beginning to glow.

“The money I am going to have before I leave here to-night.”

“Ah! blackmail. I thought so.”

Iredale’s contempt was biting.

“Call it what you like, Mr. George Iredale. I tell you this, you are in my power and you will have to buy my silence. You like plain speaking; and now you’ve got it. Refuse compliance, and I leave here to expose you.”

“Pooh,” said Iredale, leisurely turning to the window. “Do you think I’m a babe? How are you going to prove your charge? Why, you must be the veriest simpleton to think I am unprepared. By the time you can bring the law about me there will not remain a trace of––my work. You can never bring your charge home.”

“Ah, you think not.” Hervey’s words sounded like a snarl. The whisky he had drunk had worked him to a proper pitch. He had not done yet. His next shot was to be a long one and a bold one, and he was not sure where it would hit. He was not sure that it might not rebound and––but his was the nature which makes for success or disaster without a second thought. For him there was no middle course. His temperament was volcanic and his actions were largely governed by the passionate nature which was his. Iredale had not turned from the window, or he would have seen the evil working of that face. His own great, broad shoulders were set squarely before Hervey’s gaze, and the uncompromising attitude only added fuel to the latter’s already superheated feelings. “Perhaps you might find it interesting to know that they are hot upon the trail of the man who shot Leslie Grey.”

Iredale swung round like a flash. Nor were the 237 storm-clouds which but now frowned in the heavens more black than the expression of his face.

“You miserable hound!” he cried, his eyes sparkling, and his jaw muscles fairly quivering with the force of his clenching teeth. “What hellish crime would you attempt to fix on me now?”

Hervey grinned with all the ferocity of a tiger.

“I wish to fix no crime on you. I merely mention a fact. Leslie Grey was the only accuser of his murderer. He stated before he died that the man who inserted the notice in the paper which ran, ‘Yellow booming––slump in Grey,’ was the man who murdered him. I suppose you don’t happen to know who was responsible for that enigmatical line? You did not inspire it?”

The look that accompanied the man’s words was fiendish. The great eyes shone with a savage light They expressed a hatred which no words could describe. Iredale’s hands clenched and unclenched. His fingers seemed as though they were clutching at something which they longed to tear to atoms, and his thoughts centred upon the man before him.

Twice that day he had heard this challenge. Once uttered in all unconsciousness of its significance, but now with hideous meaning. His powers of self-restraint were great, but he had reached their limit. This man had accused him of a dastardly murder. Suddenly his voice rang out through the room like the bellow of a maddened bull. His great figure quivered with the fury of his passion. Hervey had done his worst; now he shrank before the storm he had provoked.

“Out of my house, you scum!” Iredale roared.

“God! but if you stay here an instant longer, I’ll smash you as I would a louse.”

The rancher stood panting at the door. His flashing eyes never left the face of the man before him. Hervey moved; he hesitated. The grin had left his face and a look of dread had replaced it. Then he moved on, forgetful of all but his moral and physical fear of the commanding figure of enraged manhood that seemed to tower over him. He even forgot the weapon which lay concealed in his pocket. He slunk on out of the door amidst a profound silence, out into the soft twilight of the valley.

The door stood open; the window stood open. Iredale looked after him. He watched the tall, drooping figure; then, as Hervey passed from view, Iredale turned back and flung himself into his chair, and his laugh sounded through the stillness of the room.

But there was no mirth in that laugh. It was like the hysterical laugh of a man whose nerves are strained to breaking tension.

He knew he had made a terrible mistake. His rage had placed a deadly weapon in his enemy’s hands. He had practically admitted his authorship of the notice in the Winnipeg paper. What would be the result? he asked himself. Again that strained laugh sounded through the room.

As Hervey rode away from the valley his fear of George Iredale fell from him as might a cloak. His face wore full expression of the evil in his heart.

He, too, laughed; but his laugh was an expression of triumph.

“You’re less clever than I thought, George Iredale,” 239 he muttered. “You would have done better to have bought my silence. Now I can sell my discovery elsewhere. Money I want, and money I mean to have.”

But he spurred his horse on as an anxious thought came to him.