“Well?” said old John, looking into the other’s face with a pair of bloodshot eyes, as he re-seated himself after rising to greet his visitor.  “Well, poor Horrocks has gone—­gone, a victim to his sense of duty.  I guess, Lablache, there are few men would have shown his grit.”

“Grit!  Yes, that’s so.”  The money-lender had been about to say “folly,” but he checked himself.  He did not want to offend “Poker” John—­now.

“Yes.  The poor fellow was too good for his work,” he went on, in tones of commiseration. “’Tis indeed a catastrophe, John.  And we are the losers by it.  I regret now that I did not altogether agree with him when he first came amongst us.”

John wagged his head.  He looked to be near weeping.  His companion’s sympathetic tone was almost too much for his whisky-laden heart.  But Lablache had not come here to discuss Horrocks, or, for that matter, to sympathize with the gray-headed wreck of manhood before him.  He wished to find out first of all if anybody was about whom his plans concerned, and then to force his proposition upon his old companion.  He carefully led the rancher to talk of other things.

“The man has gone into Stormy Cloud to report?”

“Yes.”

“And who are they likely to send down in place—­ah—­of the unfortunate Horrocks, think you?”

“Can’t say.  I guess they’ll send a good man.  I’ve asked for more men.”

The old man roused somewhat from his maudlin state.

“Ah, that’s a good move, John,” said the money-lender.  “What does Jacky think about—­these things?”

The question was put carelessly.  John yawned, and poured out a “tot” of whisky for his friend.

“Guess I haven’t seen the child since breakfast.  She seemed to take it badly enough then.”

“Thanks.  Aren’t you going to have one?” as John pushed the glass over to the other.

“Why, yes, man.  Never shirk my liquor.”

He dashed a quantity of raw spirit into his glass and drank it off.  Lablache looked on with intense satisfaction.  John rose unsteadily, and, supporting himself against the furniture as he went, moved over to the French window and closed it.  Then he lurched heavily back into his chair again.  His eyes half closed.  But he roused at the sound of Lablache’s guttural tones.

“John, old friend.”  Muddled as he was the rancher started at the term.  “I’ve come to have a long chat with you.  This morning I could not talk.  I was too broken up—­too, too ill.  Now listen and you shall hear of all that happened last night, and then you will the better be able to judge of the wisdom of my decision.”

John listened while Lablache told his tale.  The money-lender embellished the facts slightly so as the further to emphasize them.  Then, at the conclusion of the story of his night’s doings, he went on to matters which concerned his future.

“Yes, John, there is nothing left for me but to get out of the country.  Mind this is no sudden determination, but a conclusion I have long arrived at.  These disastrous occurrences have merely hastened my plans.  I am not so young as I was, you know,” with an attempt at lightness, “I simply dare not stay.  I fear that Retief will soon attempt my life.”