Lablache had known John Allandale for years.  Who, in Foss River, had he not known for years?  Lablache would have liked to call old John his friend, but somehow “Poker” John had never responded to the money-lender’s advances.  Lablache showed no resentment.  If he cared at all he was careful to keep his feelings hidden.  One thing is certain, however, he allowed himself to think long and often of old John—­and his household.  Often, when in the deepest stress of his far-reaching work, he would heave his great bulk back in his chair and allow those fishy, lashless, sphinx-like eyes of his to gaze out of his window in the direction of the Foss River Ranch.  His window faced in the direction of John’s house, which was plainly visible on the slope which bounded the southern side of the settlement.

And so it came about a few days later, in one of these digressions of thought, that the money-lender, gazing out towards the ranch, beheld a horseman riding slowly up to the veranda of the Allandale’s house.  There was nothing uncommon in the incident, but the sight riveted his attention, and an evil light came into his usually expressionless eyes.  He recognized the horseman as the Hon. Bunning-Ford.

Lablache swung round on his revolving chair, and, in doing so, kicked over a paper-basket.  The rapidity of his movement was hardly to be expected in one of his bulk.  His thin eyebrows drew together in an ugly frown.

“What does he want?” he muttered, under his heavy breath.

He hazarded no answer to his own question.  It was answered for him.  He saw the figure of a woman step out on to the veranda.

The money-lender rose swiftly to his feet and took a pair of field-glasses from their case.  Adjusting them he gazed long and earnestly at the house on the hill.

Jacky was talking to “Lord” Bill.  She was habited in her dungaree skirt and buckskin bodice.  Presently Bill dismounted and passed into the house.

Lablache shut his glasses with a snap and turned away from the window.  For some time he stood gazing straight before him and a swift torrent of thought flowed through his active brain.  Then, with the directness of one whose mind is made up, he went over to a small safe which stood in a corner of the room.  From this he took an account book.  The cover bore the legend “Private.”  He laid it upon the table, and, for some moments, bent over it as he scanned its pages.

He paused at an account headed John Allandale.  The figures of this account were very large, totalling into six figures.  The balance against the rancher was enormous.  Lablache gave a satisfied grunt as he turned over to another account.

“Safe—­safe enough.  Safe as the Day of Doom,” he said slowly.  His mouth worked with a cruel smile.

He paused at the account of Bunning-Ford.

“Twenty thousand dollars—­um,” the look of satisfaction was changed.  He looked less pleased, but none the less cruel.  “Not enough—­let me see.  His place is worth fifty thousand dollars.  Stock another thirty thousand.  I hold thirty-five thousand on first mortgage for the Calford Trust and Loan Co.”  He smiled significantly.  “This bill of sale for twenty thousand is in my own name.  Total, fifty-five thousand.  Sell him up and there would still be a margin.  No, not yet, my friend.”