Thought was very busy within that massive head as he lumped heavily along from John Allandale’s house in the direction of his own store.  Some slight satisfaction was his at the reflection of the prompt assistance he had obtained from the police.  It was the satisfaction of a man who lived by the assistance of the law, of a man who, in his own inordinate arrogance, considered that the law was made for such as he, to the detriment of those who attempt to thwart the rich man’s purpose.  He knew Horrocks to be capable, and although he did not place too much reliance on that astute prairie-man’s judgment—­he always believed in his own judgment first—­still, he knew that he could not have obtained better assistance, and was therefore as content as circumstances would permit.  That he was sanguine of recovering his property was doubtful.  Lablache never permitted himself the luxury of optimism.  He set himself a task and worked steadily on to the required end.  So he had decided now.  He did not permit himself to dwell on the desired result, or to anticipate.  He would simply leave no stone unturned to bring about the recovery of his stolen property.

He moved ponderously along over the smooth dusty road, and at last reached the market-place.  The settlement was drowsily quiet.  Life of a sort was apparent but it was chiefly “animal.”  The usual number of dogs were moving about, or peacefully basking in the sun; a few saddle horses were standing with dejected air, hitched to various tying-posts.  A buckboard and team was standing outside his own door.  The sound of the smith’s hammer falling upon the anvil sounded plaintively upon the calmness of the sleepy village.  In spite of the sensational raid of the night before, Foss River displayed no unusual activity.

At length the great man reached his office, and threw himself, with great danger to his furniture, into his capacious wicker chair.  He was in no mood for business.  Instead he gazed long and thoughtfully out of his office window.  What somber, vengeful thoughts were teeming through his brain would be hard to tell, his mask-like face betrayed nothing.  His sphinx-like expression was a blank.

In this way half an hour and more passed.  Then his attention became fixed upon a tall figure sauntering slowly towards the settlement from the direction of Allandale’s ranch.  In a moment Lablache had stirred himself, and a pair of field-glasses were leveled at the unconscious pedestrian.  A moment later an exclamation of annoyance broke from the money-lender.

“Curse the man!  Am I never to be rid of this damned Englishman?” He stood now gazing malevolently at the tall figure of the Hon. Bunning-Ford, who was leisurely making his way towards the village.  For the time being the channel of Lablache’s thoughts had changed its direction.  He had hoped, in foreclosing his mortgages on the Englishman’s property, to have rid Foss River of the latter’s, to him, hateful presence.  But since misfortune