Annixter, in the doorway of the great barn, stood looking about him
for a moment, alone, thoughtful. The barn was empty. That astonishing
evening had come to an end. The whirl of things and people, the crowd
of dancers, Delaney, the gun fight, Hilma Tree, her eyes fixed on him
in mute confession, the rabble in the harness room, the news of the
regrade, the fierce outburst of wrath, the hasty organising of the
League, all went spinning confusedly through his recollection. But he
was exhausted. Time enough in the morning to think it all over. By now
it was raining sharply. He put the roll of names into his inside pocket,
threw a sack over his head and shoulders, and went down to the ranch
house.

But in the harness room, lighted by the glittering lanterns and flaring
lamps, in the midst of overturned chairs, spilled liquor, cigar stumps,
and broken glasses, Vanamee and Presley still remained talking, talking.
At length, they rose, and came out upon the floor of the barn and stood
for a moment looking about them.

Billy, the stableman, was going the rounds of the walls, putting out
light after light. By degrees, the vast interior was growing dim. Upon
the roof overhead the rain drummed incessantly, the eaves dripping.
The floor was littered with pine needles, bits of orange peel, ends and
fragments of torn organdies and muslins and bits of tissue paper from
the "Phrygian Bonnets" and "Liberty Caps." The buckskin mare in the
stall, dozing on three legs, changed position with a long sigh. The
sweat stiffening the hair upon her back and loins, as it dried, gave off
a penetrating, ammoniacal odour that mingled with the stale perfume of
sachet and wilted flowers.

Presley and Vanamee stood looking at the deserted barn. There was a long
silence. Then Presley said:

"Well... what do you think of it all?"

"I think," answered Vanamee slowly, "I think that there was a dance in
Brussels the night before Waterloo."

BOOK II

CHAPTER I

In his office at San Francisco, seated before a massive desk of polished
redwood, very ornate, Lyman Derrick sat dictating letters to his
typewriter, on a certain morning early in the spring of the year.
The subdued monotone of his voice proceeded evenly from sentence to
sentence, regular, precise, businesslike.

"I have the honour to acknowledge herewith your favour of the 14th
instant, and in reply would state----"

"Please find enclosed draft upon New Orleans to be a