rned again like a spiteful little tiger-cat at bay.

"You think I can't prove it? That is where you fall down. I can convince
Mr. Randolph if I choose to try. And that isn't all: I can tell him how
you have planned to sell Mr. Galbraith a tract of 'virgin' pine that has
been culled over for the best timber at least three times in the past
five years!"

Jasper Grierson started from his chair and made a quick clutch into
smoky space. "Madge--you little devil!" he gritted.

But the grasping hands closed upon nothing, and the sound of the closing
door was his only answer.

* * * * *

When she had unhitched the little Morgan and had driven away from the
bank, Miss Grierson did a thing unprecedented in any of her former
grapplings with a crisis--she hesitated. Twice she drove down Sioux
Avenue with the apparent intention of stopping at the _Daily Wahaskan_
building, and twice she went on past with no more than an irresolute
glance for the upper windows beyond which lay the editorial rooms and
the office of Mr. Carter Randolph, the owner of the newspaper. But on
the third circuit of the square, decision had evidently come to its own
again. Turning the mare into Main Street, she drove quickly to the
Winnebago House and drew up at the carriage step. A bell-boy ran out to
hold the horse, but she shook her head and called him to the wheel of
the phaeton to slip a coin into his hand and to give him a brief
message.

Two minutes after the boy's disappearance, Broffin came out and touched
his hat to the trim little person in the basket seat.

"You wanted to see me, Miss Grierson?" he said, shelving his surprise,
if he had any.

"Yes. You are Mr. Matthew Broffin, of the Colburne Detective Agency, are
you not?" she asked, sweetly.

Broffin took the privilege of the accused and lied promptly.

"Not that anybody ever heard of, I reckon," he denied, matching the
smile in the inquiring eyes.

"How curious!" she commented.

Broffin's smile became a grin of triumph. "There's a heap o' curious
things in this little old world," he volunteered. "What?"

"But none quite so singular as this," she averred. Then she laughed
softly. "You see, it resolves itself into a question of
veracity--between you and Mr. Andrew Galbraith. You say you are not, and
he says you are. Which am I to believe?"

Broffin did some pretty swift thinking. There had been times when he
had fancied that Miss Grierson, rather th