Lablache took his departure shortly afterwards, and “Poker” John and his niece were left in sole possession of the office at the ranch.

The old man looked thoroughly wearied with the mental effort the interview had entailed upon him.  And Jacky, watching him, could not help noticing how old her uncle looked.  She had been a silent observer in the foregoing scene, her presence almost ignored by the other actors.  Now, however, that they were left alone, the old man turned a look of appealing helplessness upon her.  Such was the rancher’s faith in this wild, impetuous girl that he looked for her judgment on what had passed in that room with the ready faith of one who regards her as almost infallible, where human intellect is needed.  Nor was the girl, herself, slow to respond to his mute inquiry.  The swiftness of her answer enhanced the tone of her conviction.

“Set a thief to catch a thief, Uncle John.  I guess Horrocks, in spite of his shifty black eyes, isn’t the man for the business.  He might track the slimmest neche that ever crossed the back of a choyeuse.  Lablache is the man Retief has to fear.  That uncrowned monarch of Foss River is subtle, and subtlety alone will serve.  Horrocks?” with fine disdain.  “Say, you can’t shoot snipe with a pea-shooter.”

“That’s so,” replied John, with weary thoughtlessness.  “Do you know, child, I can’t help feeling a strange satisfaction that this Retief’s victim is Lablache.  But there, one never knows, when such a man is about, who will be the next to suffer.  I suppose we must take our chance and trust to the protection of the police.”

The girl had walked to the window and now stood framed in the casement of it.  She turned her face back towards the old man as he finished speaking, and a quiet little smile hovered round the corners of her fresh ripe lips.

“I don’t think Retief will bother us any—­at least, he never did before.  Somehow I don’t think he’s an ordinary rascal.”  She turned back to the window.  “Hulloa, I guess Bill’s coming right along up the avenue.”

A moment later “Lord” Bill, lazily cheerful as was his wont, stepped in through the open French window.  The selling up of his ranch seemed to have made little difference to his philosophical temperament.  In his appearance, perhaps, for now he no longer wore the orthodox dress of the rancher.  He was clad in a tweed lounging suit, and a pair of well-polished, brown leather boots.  His headgear alone pertained to the prairie.  It was a Stetson hat.  He was smoking a cigarette as he came up, but he threw the insidious weed from him as he entered the room.

“Morning, John.  How are you, Jacky?  I needn’t ask you if you have heard the news.  I saw Sergeant Horrocks and old Shylock leaving your veranda.  Hot lot—­isn’t it?  And all Lablache’s cattle, too.”

A look of deep concern was on his keen face.  Lablache might have been his dearest friend.  Jacky smiled over at him.  “Poker” John looked pained.