nk of a modernized
Diana--modernized as to clothes, but carrying, in her straight-limbed
grace, all the world-old spell of the outdoors.

"Our young friend has just learned the truth, my dear," said the
gray-haired man. "He knows that I am Sargent, and that our stepfather,
Willis Morgan, is dead."

Helen stepped quickly to Sargent's side. There was something suggesting
filial protection in her attitude. Sargent smiled up at her,
reassuringly.

"Probably it is better," he said, "that the whole thing should be
known."

"But in a few days we should have been gone," said Helen. "Why have all
our hopes been destroyed in this way at the last moment? Is this some of
your work," she added bitterly, addressing Lowell--"some of your work as
a spy?"

Sargent spoke up quickly.

"It was fate," he said. "I have felt from the first that I should not
have attempted to escape punishment for my deed. The young man has
simply done his duty. He worked with the sole idea of getting at the
truth--and it is always the truth that matters most. What difference can
it make who is hurt, so long as the truth is known?"

"But how did it become known," asked Helen, "when everything seemed to
be so thoroughly in our favor? The innocent men who were suspected had
been released. The public was content to let the crime rest at the door
of Talpers--a man capable of any evil deed. What has happened to change
matters so suddenly?"

"It was the old white horse that betrayed us," said Sargent, with a grim
smile. "It shows on what small threads our fates hang balanced. The
Greek letter brand still shows in the mud where the horse rolled on the
day of the murder on the Dollar Sign hill. When our young friend here
saw that bit of evidence, he came directly to the ranch and accused me
of knowledge of the crime, all the time thinking I was Willis Morgan."

"Let me continue my work as a spy," broke in Lowell bitterly, "and ask
for a complete statement."

"Willis Morgan was my twin brother," said Sargent. "As Willard Sargent
he had made a distinguished name for himself among the teachers of Greek
in this country. He was a professor at an early age, his bent toward
scholarship being opposite to mine, which was along the lines of
invention. My brother was a hard, cruel man, beneath a polished
exterior. Cynicism was as natural to him as breathing. He married a
young and beautiful woman, who had been married before, and who had a
little daughter--a mere b