h which it was wreathed. His
jowl was ponderous, and his little mouth was tightly compressed, while
his deep-sunken, bilious eyes peered from between heavy, lashless lids.

Such was Verner Lablache, the wealthiest man of the Foss River
Settlement. He owned a large store in the place, selling farming
machinery to the settlers and ranchers about. His business was always
done on credit, for which he charged exorbitant rates of interest,
accepting only first mortgages upon crops and stock as security. Besides
this he represented several of the Calford private banks, which many
people said were really owned by him, and there was no one more ready to
lend money--on the best of security and the highest rate of
interest--than he. Should the borrower fail to pay, he was always
suavely ready to renew the loan at increased interest--provided the
security was sound. And, in the end, every ounce of his pound of flesh,
plus not less than fifty per cent. interest, would come back to him.
After Verner Lablache had done with him, the unfortunate rancher who
borrowed generally disappeared from the neighborhood. Sometimes this
man's victims were never heard of again. Sometimes they were discovered
doing the "chores" round some obscure farmer's house. Anyway, ranch,
crops, stock--everything the man ever had--would have passed into the
hands of the money-lender, Lablache.

Hard-headed dealer--money-grubber--as Lablache was, he had a weakness.
To look at him--to know him--no one would have thought it, but he had.
And at least two of those present were aware of his secret. He was in
love with Jacky. That is to say, he coveted her--desired her. When
Lablache desired anything in that little world of his, he generally
secured it to himself, but, in this matter, he had hitherto been
thwarted. His desire had increased proportionately. He was annoyed to
think that Jacky had retired at his coming. He was in no way blind to
the reason of her sudden departure, but beyond his first remark he was
not the man to advertise his chagrin. He could afford to wait.

"You'll take a bite o' supper, Mr. Lablache?" said old Norton, in a tone
of inquiry.

"Supper?--no, thanks, Norton. But if you've a drop of something hot I
can do with that."

"We've gener'ly got somethin' o' that about," replied the old man.
"Whiskey or rum?"

"Whisky, man, whisky. I've got liver enough already without touching
rum." Then he turned to "Poker" John.

"It's a devilish night