One of the clerks opened the door.

“It is past ten, sir, shall I close up?” he asked.

“Yes, close up.  Whose evening off is it?”

“Rodgers, sir.  He is still out.  He’ll be in before midnight, sir.”

“Ah, down at the saloon, I expect,” said Lablache, drily.  “Well, bolt the front door.  Just leave it on the spring latch.  I shall be up until he comes in.  What are you two boys going to do?”

“Going to bed, sir.”

“All right; good-night.”

“Good-night, sir.”

The door closed quietly after the clerk, and Lablache heard his two assistants close up the store and then go upstairs to their rooms.  The money-lender was served well.  His employees in the store had been with him for years.  They were worked very hard and their pay was not great, but their money was sure, and their employment was all the year round.  So many billets upon the prairie depended upon the seasons—­opulence one month and idleness the next.  On the ranches it was often worse.  There is but little labor needed in the winter.  And those who have the good fortune to be employed all the year round generally experience a reduction in wages at the end of the fall round-up, and find themselves doing the “chores” when winter comes on.

After the departure of the clerk Lablache re-settled himself and went on smoking placidly.  The minutes ticked slowly away.  An occasional groan from the long-suffering basket chair, and the wreathing clouds of smoke were the only appreciable indication of life in that little room.  By-and-by the great man reached a memorandum tablet from his desk and dotted down a few hurried figures.  Then he breathed a great sigh, and his face wore a look of satisfaction.  There could be no doubt as to the tenor of his thoughts.  Money, money.  It was as life to him.

The distant rattle of the spring lock of the store front door being snapped-to disturbed the quiet of the office.  Lablache heard the sound.  Then followed the bolting of the door.  The money-lender turned again to his figures.  It was the return of Rodgers, he thought, which had disturbed him.  He soon became buried in further calculations.  While figuring he unconsciously listened for the sound of the clerk’s footsteps on the stairs as he made his way up to his room.  The sound did not come.  The room was clouded with tobacco smoke, and still Lablache belched out fresh clouds to augment the reek of the atmosphere.  Suddenly the glass door opened.  The money-lender heard the handle move.

“Eh, what is it, Rodgers?” he said, in a displeased tone.  As he spoke he peered through the smoke.

“What d’you want?” he exclaimed angrily.  Then he rubbed his eyes and craned forward only to fall back again with a muttered curse.  He had stared into the muzzle of a heavy six-shooter.

He moved his hand as though to throw his memorandum pad on the desk, but instantly a stern voice ordered him to desist and the threatening revolver came closer.