Can you believe in
the apparent improbability of such a man as I am in the opinion of the
folks at Silverdale getting tired of a wasted life and trying to walk
straight again? I want your answer, yes or no, before I head across
the prairie for my own place."

"Sit down," said Dane with a little smile. "Do you think I would have
brought you here if I hadn't believed it? And, if I have my way, the
first man who flings a stone will be sorry for it. Still, I don't
think any of them will--or could afford it. If we had all been saints,
some of us would never have come out from the old country."

He stopped and poured out two glasses of wine. "It's a long while
since I've talked so much," he said. "Here's to our better
acquaintance, Courthorne."

After that they talked wheat-growing and horses, and when his guest
retired Dane still sat smoking thoughtfully beside the stove. "We want
a man with nerve and brains," he said. "I fancy the one who has been
sent us will make a difference at Silverdale."

It was about the same time when Colonel Barrington stood talking with
his niece and sister in Silverdale Grange. "And the man threw that
trick away, when it was absolutely clear who had the ace--and wished me
to believe that he forgot!" he said.

His face was flushed with indignation, but Miss Barrington smiled at
her niece. "What is your opinion, Maud?"

The girl moved one white shoulder with a little gesture of disdain.
"Can you ask--after that! Besides, he twice willfully perverted facts
while he talked to me, though it was not in the least necessary."

Miss Barrington looked thoughtful. "And yet, because I was watching
him, I do not think he plays cards well."

"But he was a professional gambler," said the girl.

The elder lady shook her head. "So we--heard," she said. "My dear,
give him a little time. I have seen many men and women--and can't help
a fancy that there is good in him."

"Can the leopard change his spots?" asked Colonel Barrington, with a
grim smile.

The little white-haired lady glanced at him as she said quietly, "When
the wicked man--"

CHAPTER IX

COURTHORNE DISAPPEARS

Supper was cooking when Lance Courthorne sat beside the glowing stove
in the comfortless general room of a little wooden hotel in a desolate
settlement of Montana. He had a good many acquaintances in the
straggling town, where he now and then ran a faro game, though it was
some months since he had last