lache moved heavily back
to his desk. The alarm clock indicated ten minutes to nine. He stood for
some moments gazing with introspective eyes at the timepiece. He was
thinking hard. He was convinced that what he had just heard was a mere
fabrication, invented to cover some ulterior motive. That motive puzzled
him. He had no fear for Horrocks's life. Horrocks wore the uniform of
the Government. Lawless and all as the Breeds were, he knew they would
not resist the police--unless, of course, Retief were there. Having
decided in his mind that Retief would not be there he had no misgivings.
He failed to fathom the trend of affairs at all. In spite of his outward
calm he felt uneasy, and he started as though he had been shot when he
heard a loud knocking at his private door.

The money-lender's hand dropped on to the revolver lying upon the desk,
and he carried the weapon with him when he went to answer the summons.
His alarm was needless. His late visitor was "Poker" John.

The old rancher came in sheepishly enough. There was no mistaking the
meaning of his peculiar crouching gait, the leering upward glance of his
bloodshot eyes. To any one who did not know him, his appearance might
have been that of a drink-soaked tramp, so dishevelled and bleared he
looked. Lablache took in the old man's condition in one swift glance
from his pouched and fishy eyes. His greeting was cordial--too cordial.
Any other but the good-hearted, simple old man would have been
suspicious of it. Cordiality was not Lablache's nature.

"Ah, John, better late than never," he exclaimed gutturally. "Come in
and have a smoke."

"Yes, I thought I'd just come right down and--see if you'd got any
news."

"None--none, old friend. Nothing at all. Horrocks is a fool, I'm
thinking. Take that chair," pointing to the basket chair. "You're not
looking up to the mark. Have a nip of Glenlivet."

He passed the white-labeled bottle over to his companion, and watched
the rancher curiously as he shakily helped himself to a liberal "four
fingers." "Poker" John was rapidly breaking up. Lablache fully realized
this.

"No news--no news," murmured John, as he smacked his lips over his "tot"
of whisky. "It's bad, man, very bad. We're not safe in this place whilst
that man's about. Dear, dear, dear."

The senility of the rancher was painfully apparent. Doubtless it was the
result of his recent libations and excesses. The money-lender was quite
aware that John had not co