“Excellent—­excellent,” he muttered.  “The devil could not have designed it better.”  There was a grim, evil smile about his mouth.  “Yes, a game—­a game.  It will tickle old John, and will carry out my purpose.  The mortgages which I hold on his property are nothing to me.  Most are gambling debts.  For the rest the interest has covered the principal.  I have seen to that.  But he is in arrears now.  Good—­good.  Their abandonment represents no loss to me—­ha, ha.”  He chuckled mirthlessly.  “A little game—­a gentle flutter, friend John, and the stakes all in my favor.  But I do not intend to lose.  Oh, no.  The girl might outwit me if I lost.  I shall win, and on my wedding day I shall be magnanimous—­good.”  He unclasped his hands and rubbed them together gleefully.

“The uncle’s consent—­his persuasion.  She will do as he wishes or—­ruin.  It is capital—­a flawless scheme.  And then to leave Foss River forever.  God, but I shall be glad,” with a return to his nervous dread.  He looked about him; eagerly, his great paunchy figure pictured grotesquely beneath the pasty, fearful face.

“Now to see John,” he went on, after a moment’s pause.  “How—­how?  I wish I could get him here.  It would be better here.  There would be no chance of listening ears.  Besides, there is the whisky.”  He paused again thinking.  “Yes,” he muttered presently.  “Delay would be bad.  I must not give my enemy time.  At once—­at once.  Nothing like doing things at once.  I must go to John.  But—­” and he looked dubiously at the darkened window—­“when I return it will be dark.”  He picked up his other revolver and slipped it into his breast pocket.  “Yes, yes, I am getting foolish—­old.  Come along, my friend, we will go.”

He seized his hat and went to the office door.  He paused with his hand upon the lock, and gave one final look round, then he turned the spring with a great show of determination and passed out.

It was a different man who left the little office on that evening to the man who had for so many years governed the destinies of the smaller ranching world of the Foss River district.  He had truly said that he was getting old—­but he did not quite realize how old.  His enemies had done their work only too well.  The terrible consequences of the night of terror were to have far-reaching results.

The money-lender set out for the ranch bristling with eagerness to put into execution his hastily conceived plan.

He found the old rancher in his sanctum.  He was alone brooding over the calamity which had befallen the police-officer, and stimulating his thought with silent “nippings” at the whisky bottle.  He was in a semi-maudlin condition when the money-lender entered, and greeted his visitor with almost childish effusion.

Lablache saw and understood, and a sense of satisfaction came to him.  He hoped his task would be easier than he had anticipated.  His evil nature rose to the occasion, and, for the moment, his own troubles and fears were forgotten.  There was a cat-like licking of the lips as he contemplated the pitiful picture before him.