he evening. While
the toddies were being consumed, Johnson observed the safe, a purchase
of my brother's, in which we kept our papers and accounts and any
money we might have. We had bought it, second-hand, and the vendor
assured us it was quite burglar-proof. Ajax mentioned this to our
guest. He laughed presently.

"No safe is burglar-proof," he said; "and most certainly not that
one." He continued in a slightly different tone: "I suppose you are
not imprudent enough to keep money in it. I mean gold. On a big,
lonely ranch like this all your money affairs should be transacted
with cheques."

"We are in the wilds," said Ajax, "and it may surprise you to learn
that not so very long ago the Spanish-Californians who owned most of
the land kept thousands of pounds in gold slugs. In the attic over
this old 'adobe,' Don Juan Soberanes, from whom we bought this ranch,
kept his cash in gold dust and slugs in a clothes-basket. His nephew
used to take a tile off the roof, drop a big lump of tallow attached
to a cord into the basket, and scoop up what he could. The man who
bought our steers yesterday has no dealings with banks. He paid us in
Uncle Sam's notes."

"Did he?"

Shortly afterwards we went to bed. As our guest turned into the spare
room, he said whimsically--

"Have I entertained you? You have entertained me."

Ajax held out his hand. Johnson hesitated a moment--I recalled his
hesitation afterwards--and then extended his hand, a singularly
slender, well-formed member.

"You have the hand of an artist," said the ever-curious Ajax.

"The most beautiful hand I ever saw," replied Johnson imperturbably,
"belonged to a--thief. Good-night."

Ajax frowned, turning down the corners of his lips in exasperation.

"I am eaten up with curiosity," he growled.

* * * * *

Next morning we routed out an old kit-bag, into which we packed a few
necessaries. When we insisted upon Johnson accepting this, he shrugged
his shoulders and turned the palms of his hands upwards, as if to show
their emptiness.

"Why do you do this?" he asked, with a certain indescribable
peremptoriness.

Ajax answered simply--

"A man must have clean linen. In the town you are going to, a boiled
shirt is a credential. I should like to give you a letter to the
cashier of the bank. He is a Britisher, and a good fellow. You are not
strong enough for such work as we might offer you, but he will find
you a billet."

"You po