“Yes, my opinion is more definite than that,” he corroborated evenly.  He did not suggest that he was sorry to say what he was about to say, did not qualify in advance by intimating that his prognosis might be wrong.  “I think the next attack will be the last.  Moreover, I believe it will come soon, very soon.”  Impassively as he had spoken, he produced a book of rice paper from his pocket and a rubber pouch of tobacco.  The long fingers were skilful, and a cigarette came into being as under a machine.  Without another word he lit a match and waited until the flame was well up on the wood.  Of a sudden a great cloud of kindly smoke separated him from the other.

With an effort the big rancher lifted in his seat, passed his sleeve across his forehead clumsily.

“Thank you, Chantry.”  He cleared his throat raspingly.  “As I said, I expected this; that’s why I came to see you to-day.”  For the second time his cigar was dead, but he did not light it again.  There was no need of subterfuge now.  “I want you to do me a favour.”  He looked at the other steadily through the diminishing haze.  “Will you promise me?”

“No,” said Chantry.

Landor stared as one who could not believe his ears.

“No!” he interrogated.

“I said so.”

A trace of colour appeared in the rancher’s mottled cheeks as, with an effort, he got to his feet.

“I beg your pardon then for disturbing you,” he said coldly.  “I was labouring under the delusion that you were a friend.”

The brief career of the cigarette was ended.  Chantry’s long fingers had locked over his knee.  He did not move.

“Sit down, please,” he said.  “It is precisely because I am your friend that I will not promise.”

Landor halted, a question in every line of his face.

“I think I fail to understand,” he groped.  “I suppose I’m dense.”

“No, you’re merely transparent.  You were going to ask the one thing I can’t promise you.”

Landor stared, in mystified uncertainty.

“Please sit down.  You were going to ask me to take charge of your affairs if anything was to happen.  Is it not so?”

“Yes.  But how in the world—­” “Don’t ask it then, please,” swiftly.  He ignored the other’s suggestion.  “Get someone else, someone you’ve known for a long time.”

“I’ve known you for a long time—­five years.”

“Or leave everything in your wife’s hands.”  Again Chantry scouted the obvious.  “If there should be need she could get a lawyer from the city—­”

“Lawyer nothing!” refuted Landor.  “That’s just what I wish to avoid.  Mary or the girl, either one, have about as much idea of taking care of themselves as they have of speaking Chinese.  They’d be on the county inside a year, with no one interested to look out for them.”

“But How—­”

“He’s as bad.  He can ride a broncho, or stalk a sandhill crane where there isn’t cover to hide your hat, or manage cattle, or stretch out in the sun and:  dream; but business—­He wouldn’t know a bank cheque if he saw one; and, what’s worse, he doesn’t want to know.”