the estate. It's small, but there are two
quarries which need looking after. Then he's director of a company. He
doesn't believe that a man should be idle."

Prescott smiled. He had read a good deal about England, and he could
imagine Jernyngham's firm control of his property. His rule would, no
doubt, be just, but it would be enforced on autocratic and highly
conventional lines. His daughter, the rancher thought, resembled him in
some respects. She was handsome and dignified in a colorless way; she
might have been charming if she were only a trifle less correct in manner
and there were more life in her.

"Well," he said, in answer to her last remark, "that's a notion you'll
find lived up to here. The man who won't work mighty hard very soon goes
broke. It's a truth you in the old country ought to impress on the men
you're sending out to us."

She liked his easy phraseology; which she supposed was western, and there
was nothing harsh in his intonation. It was that of a well-educated man,
and the Jernynghams were exacting in such matters.

"I think there must be something in the air which makes toil less
arduous," she said. "The people I've met have a cheerful, optimistic
look." She hesitated, and added in a confidential tone: "I like to
imagine that my brother wore the same expression, though he was always
carelessly gay. He seems to have made a capable rancher. It was a great
relief to us when we were told of it."

Prescott grew hot and embarrassed, but he thought he could understand how
Cyril Jernyngham had entered on a course of recklessness. It was a
reaction against the overwhelming propriety of his father and sister.

"I don't think you need grieve for your brother yet," he said gravely.
"Although nobody here seems to agree with me, I find it impossible to
believe that he is dead."

Gertrude gave him a grateful look.

"I'm glad to hear you say so--there is at least a doubt, and that is
comforting; though I'm afraid my father can't be made to realize it."

"Can't you persuade him not to take too much for granted?"

"I wish I could." Gertrude's tone was sad. "He has been brooding over the
dreadful news ever since it reached us. It has possessed him absolutely;
he can think of nothing else, and there will be no relief for him until
he finds the guilty person, or it is proved beyond all doubt that the
police are mistaken." She paused before she went on. "If they're right, I
think I should feel as merciless