A moment later, the man reappeared in the road, farther down, around the bend.  As the Ranger approached, he was hailed by a boisterous, “Hello, Brian! better stop and have a bite.”

“How do you do, Mr. Rutlidge?” came the officer’s greeting, as he reined in his horse.  “When did you land in the hills?"’

“This afternoon,” answered the other.  “We’re just making camp.  Come and meet the fellows.  You know some of them.”

“Thanks, not to-night,”—­returned Brian Oakley,—­“deer hunt, I suppose.”

“Yes—­thought we would be in good time for the opening of the season.  By the way, do you happen to know where Lagrange and that artist friend of his are camped?”

“In that bunch of sycamores back of the old orchard down there,” answered the Ranger, watching the man’s face keenly.  “I just passed Mr. King, up the road a piece.”

“That so?  I didn’t see him go by,” returned the other.  “I think I’ll run over and say ‘hello’ to Lagrange in the morning.  We are only going as far as Burnt Pine to-morrow, anyway.”

“Keep your eyes open for an escaped convict,” said the officer, casually.  “There’s one ranging somewhere in here—­came in about a month ago.  He’s likely to clean out your camp.  So long.”

“Perhaps we’ll take him in for you,” laughed the other.  “Good night.”  He turned toward the camp-fire under the trees, as the officer rode away.

“Now what in hell did that fellow want to lie to me like that for,” said Brian Oakley to himself.  “He must have seen King and Sibyl as they came down the trail.  Max, old boy, when a man lies deliberately, without any apparent reason, you want to watch him.”

Chapter XXII

Shadows of Coming Events

Aaron King and Conrad Lagrange were idling in their camp, after breakfast the next morning, when Czar turned his head, quickly, in a listening attitude.  With a low growl that signified disapproval, he moved forward a step or two and stood stiffly erect, gazing toward the lower end of the orchard.

“Some one coming, Czar?” asked the artist.

The dog answered with another growl, while the hair on his neck bristled in anger.

“Some one we don’t like, heh!” commented the novelist.  “Or”—­he added as if musing upon the animal’s instinct—­“some one we ought not to like.”

A bark from Czar greeted James Rutlidge who at that moment appeared at the foot of the slope leading up to their camp.

The two men—­remembering the occasion of their visitor’s last call at their home in Fairlands, when he had seen Sibyl in the studio—­received the man with courtesy, but with little warmth.  Czar continued to manifest his sentiments until rebuked by his master.  The coolness of the reception, however, in no way disconcerted James Rutlidge; who, on his part, rather overdid his assumption of pleasure at meeting them again.