trong to show him the portion of the river
in which she had caught those delicious trout. Heretofore, she had used
a baited hook when fishing, landing her spoil with a trout pole, but now
she was to be initiated in the delicate mysteries of fly fishing.
Stranleigh remembered the story told of an English official sent to view
the debateable land adjoining the far western boundary of Canada who
reported the territory useless, because the fish wouldn't rise to the
fly. He wondered what lure the official used, for here they rose readily
enough, and fought like demons until Miss Armstrong deftly lifted them
from the water in the new-fangled landing net, the like of which she had
never seen before.

But in spite of the excellent sport he was enjoying, Stranleigh became
more and more anxious as time went on. Nothing had been heard from
Stanley Armstrong. The fisher began to fear that the detective had
failed in his search. On the morning of the fourth day he dressed in his
ordinary tweed suit. The riding costume attracted more attention than
was altogether convenient. He put in his pocket an automatic revolver of
the latest construction; light, accurate and deadly. The day of the
auction was drawing uncomfortably near, and he was determined that his
journey should not be interrupted, as his former ride had been. Aside
from this, he expected to carry with him a large amount of money, and if
any word of that got abroad, he knew a holdup was quite within the range
of possibility. The coterie confined in the bunk house would doubtless
learn that they were their own gaolers, and with that gang once free
upon the landscape, he anticipated interruption which, if successful,
would completely nullify his plans.

"Are you going fishing to-day?" asked Miss Armstrong, when he came
downstairs. He had appeared unexpectedly soon that morning. The young
woman was always an early riser.

"Fishing!" echoed Stranleigh. "Yes, in a manner of speaking. Isn't there
a text which refers to fishers of men? I'm going fishing for your
father. We should have had him here before this, but now the need of him
becomes imperative. I imagine that a telegram awaits me in Bleachers. If
not, I must communicate with New York, and wait for a reply."

Stranleigh walked up the hill to the bunk house, and rapped at the panel
with the butt of his riding whip. Dean himself threw open the door, and
he could not conceal his astonishment at seeing the young man standing