“Yup.”

“Who knows the secret of it?”

“Peter.”

“Only?”

The Breed hesitated.  His furtive eyes shifted from one face to the other of his auditors.  Then encountering the fixed stare of both men he glanced away towards the window.  He seemed uncomfortable under the mute inquiry.  Then he went on doubtfully.

“I guess thar’s others.  It’s an old secret among the Breeds.  An’ I’ve heerd tell as some whites knows it.”

A swift exchange of meaning glances passed between the two listeners.

“Who?”

“Can’t say.”

“Won’t—­you mean?”

“No, boss.  Ef I knew it ’ud pay me well to tell.  Guess I don’t know.  I’ve tried to find out.”

“Now look you.  Retief has always been supposed to have been drowned in the keg.  Where’s he been all the time?”

The half-breed grinned.  Then his face became suddenly serious.  He began to think the cross-questioning was becoming too hot He decided to draw on his imagination.

“Peter was no more drowned than I was.  He tricked you—­us all—­into that belief.  Gee!—­but he’s slick.  Peter went to Montana.  When the States got too sultry fur ’im he jest came right back hyar.  He’s been at the camp fur two weeks an’ more.”

Horrocks was silent after this.  Then he turned to Lablache.

“Anything you’d like to ask him?”

The money-lender shook his head and Horrocks turned back to his man.

“I guess that’s all.  Here’s your fifty,” he went on, taking a roll of bills from his pocket and counting out the coveted greenbacks.  “See and don’t get mad drunk and get to shooting.  Off you go.  If you learn anything more I’m ready to pay for it.”

Gautier took the bills and hastily crammed them into his pocket as if he feared he might be called upon to return them.  Then he made for the door.  He hesitated before he passed out.

“Say, sergeant, you ain’t goin’ fur to try an’ take ’im at the pusky?” he asked, with an appearance of anxiety.

“That’s my business.  Why?”

The Breed shrugged.

“Ye’ll feed the coyotes, sure as—­kingdom come.  Say they’ll jest flay the pelt off yer.”

“Git!”

The rascal “got” without further delay or evil prophecy.  He knew Horrocks.

When the door closed, and the officer had assured himself of the man’s departure, he turned to his host.

“Well?”

“Well?” retorted Lablache.

“What do you make of it?”

“An excellent waste of fifty dollars.”

Lablache’s face was expressive of indifference mixed with incredulity.

“He told you what you already knew,” he pursued, “and drew on his imagination for the rest.  I’ll swear that Retief has not been seen at the Breed camp for the last fortnight.  Moreover, that man was reciting a carefully-thought-out tale.  I fancy you have something yet to learn in your business, Horrocks.  You have not the gift of reading men.”