him," Bill replied, urging his horse into a canter
towards the winding ascent which was to take them home.

The ducks frolicking in their watery playground chattered and flapped
their heavy wings. The frogs in their reedy beds croaked and chirruped
without ceasing. And who shall say how much they had heard, or had seen,
or knew of that compact sealed in Bad Man's Hollow?

CHAPTER IX

LABLACHE'S "COUP"

Lablache was seated in a comfortable basket chair in his little back
office. He preferred a basket chair--he knew its value. He had tried
other chairs of a less yielding nature, but they were useless to support
his weight; he had broken too many, and they were expensive--there is
nothing more durable than a strong basket chair. Lablache appreciated
strength combined with durability, especially when the initial outlay
was reduced to a minimum.

His slippered feet were posted on the lower part of the self-feeding
stove and he gazed down, deep in thought, at the lurid glow of the fire
shining through the mica sides of the firebox.

A clock was ticking away with that peculiar, vibrating aggressiveness
which characterizes the cheap American "alarm." The bare wood of the
desk aggravated the sound, and, in the stillness of the little room, the
noise pounded exasperatingly on the ear-drums. From time to time he
turned his great head, and his lashless eyes peered over at the paper
dial of the clock. Once or twice he stirred with a suggestion of
impatience. At times his heavy breathing became louder and shorter, and
he seemed about to give expression to some irritable thought.

At last his bulk heaved and he removed his feet from the stove. Then he
slowly raised himself from the depths of the yielding chair. His
slippered feet shuffled over the floor as he moved towards the window.
The blind was down, but he drew it aside and wiped the steam from the
glass pane with his soft, fat hand. The night was black--he could see
nothing of the outside world. It was nearly an hour since he had left
the saloon where he had been playing poker with John Allandale. He
appeared to be waiting for some one, and he wanted to go to bed.

Once more he returned to his complaining chair and lowered himself into
it. The minutes slipped by. Lablache did not want to smoke; he felt that
he must do something to soothe his impatience, so he chewed at the
quicks of his finger-nails.

Presently there came a tap at the window. The money-lender