the full height of her lithe figure, facing
him.

"No, I don't!" she flamed. "But if I did what business would it be of
yours? Casey Dunne is my friend--a gentleman--which is more than you
seem to be, Mr. Farwell."

She took a step toward him in her indignation. Suddenly, with a sweep
of his arm, he clipped her to him, kissing her on forehead and cheek.
She struck him in the face with her clenched fist driven by muscles as
hard as an athlete's.

"You great brute!" she panted.

With the blow and the words, Farwell's moment of madness passed. He
held her from him at arm's length.

"A brute!" he said. "You're right. I didn't know it before. Now, I do.
How can I put myself right with you?"

"Let me go!" she cried.

As he released her she heard the quick pad of running feet. Out of the
dusk behind her bounded young Sandy McCrae. He came like a young wolf
to its first kill, his lips lifted in a snarl. In his right hand lay a
long-barrelled, black Colt's.

"Sheila!" he cried. "What's the matter? Who's this? What in--ah!"

The gun leaped up. Instinctively she threw out her hand, striking it as
he pulled the trigger. A thin stream of flame blazed almost into
Farwell's face, and the sharp report split the evening silence into
fragments. Something like a questing finger of death ran through his
hair, and his hat twitched from his head, to flutter down softly ten
feet away. But he was unhurt.

Sheila locked both arms around her brother's, dragging it down.

"No, no, no!" she cried. "I tell you no, Sandy! Don't shoot again. It's
a mistake."

He wrenched furiously to free his hand. "Mistake!" he shouted. "He was
holding you! I saw him. I heard you. Let go. I'll blow his heart out!"

But she clung to his arm. "It's a mistake, Sandy, I tell you! Can't you
understand me? Don't use that gun. I won't let you. Give it to me!"

He ceased his attempts to free his arm. "All right, Sheila. I won't
shoot--this time. You, Farwell, what have you got to say for yourself?"

"Mighty little," Farwell replied. "I asked your sister to marry me, and
she refused. I kissed her against her will. That's all--and plenty. If
you want my opinion, I think I ought to be shot."

Sandy glared at him, taken aback by this frank admission.

"If she hadn't jolted my hand you sure would have been," he said
grimly. "You're mighty lucky to be alive right now. After this if I see
you----"

"Shut up, Sandy!" Sheila interrupted authoritatively, with