“Usual British waster.  Never done a day’s work in his life, and never wanted to, too tired to open his eyes more than half-way when he looked at you, but if he ever fools round the saloon again, he’ll know what he is before I’m through with him.”

Winston laughed.  “I wouldn’t be rash or you may get another astonishment,” he said.  “We really know one or two useful things in the old country, but you can’t fetch the settlement before morning, and we’ll put you up if you like.”

“No, sir,” said the other dryly.  “I’m not fond of Englishmen, and we might get arguing, while I’ve had ’bout enough of you for one night.”

He rode away, and Winston went back into the house very thoughtfully, wondering whether he would be called upon to answer for more of Courthorne’s doings.

It was two or three days later when Maud Barrington returned with her aunt from a visit to an outlying farm, where, because an account of what took place in the saloon had by some means been spread about, she heard a story brought in from the settlement.  It kept her silent during the return journey, and Miss Barrington said nothing, but when the Colonel met them in the hall, he glanced at his niece.

“I see Mrs. Carndall has been telling you both a tale,” he said.  “It would have been more fitting if she had kept it to herself.”

“Yes,” said Maud Barrington.  “Still, you do not credit it?”

Barrington smiled a trifle dryly.  “I should very much prefer not to, my dear, but what we saw the other night appears to give it probability.  The man Courthorne was dismissing somewhat summarily is, I believe, to marry the lady in question.  You will remember I asked you once before whether the leopard can change his spots.”

The girl laughed a little.  “Still, are you not presuming when you take it for granted that there are spots to change?”

Colonel Barrington said nothing further, and it was late that night when the two women reopened the subject.

“Aunt,” said Maud Barrington, “I want to know what you think about Mrs. Carndall’s tale.”

The little lady shook her head.  “I should like to disbelieve it if I could.”

“Then,” said Maud Barrington, “why don’t you?”

“Can you give me any reasons?  One must not expect too much from human nature, my dear.”

The girl sat silent a while, remembering the man who she had at first sight, and in the moonlight, fancied was like her companion at the time.  It was not, however, the faint resemblance that had impressed her, but a vague something in his manner, his grace, his half-veiled insolence, his poise in the saddle.  She had only seen Lance Courthorne on a few occasions when she was very young, but she had seen others of his race, and the man reminded her of them.  Still, she felt half-instinctively that as yet it would be better that nobody should know this, and she stooped over some lace on the table as she answered the elder lady.