“Go,” she said hoarsely.  “Go now.”

Courthorne made a little gesture that might have meant anything, and then he swung round abruptly without another look at her.  When the door dosed behind him he went down the corridor with a little wry smile in his eyes.

“After all, it’s the gambler first,” he said.  “A little rough on the straight man—­as usual.”

Then he sat down beside the stove in the bare general room and thoughtfully smoked a cigar.  Ailly was going to England, Winston, to save his neck, had gone as Courthorne to Silverdale, and in another day or two the latter would have disappeared.  He could not claim his new possessions without forcing facts better left unmentioned upon everybody’s attention, since Winston would doubtless object to jeopardize himself to please him, and the land at Silverdale could not in any case be sold without the consent of Colonel Barrington.  Winston was also an excellent farmer and a man he had confidence in, one who could be depended on to subsidize the real owner, which would suit the gambler a good deal better than farming.  When he had come to this decision he threw his cigar end away and strolled towards the bar.

“Boys,” he said to the loungers, “I want you to have a drink with me.  Somebody has left me land and property in the very select colony of Silverdale on the Canadian prairie, and I’m going back there to take possession first thing to-morrow.”

Most of them joined him, and the second time his glass was filled he lifted it and glanced at Potter.

“Long life to you and the prettiest girl on either side of the frontier!” he said.

They drank the toast with acclamation, and Courthorne, who strolled away, retired early and started for the railroad before daylight next morning.  He laughed softly as he glanced back a moment at the lights of the settlement.

“There are a good many places on this side of the frontier that will suit me better than Silverdale,” he said.  “In fact, it’s probable that most of his friends have seen the last of Lance Courthorne.”

CHAPTER X

AN ARMISTICE

The dismal afternoon was drawing in when Winston, driving home from the railroad, came into sight of a lonely farm.  It lifted itself out of the prairie, a blur of huddled buildings on the crest of a long rise, but at first sight Winston scarcely noticed it.  He was gazing abstractedly down the sinuous smear of trail which unrolled itself like an endless ribbon across the great white desolation, and his brain was busy.  Four months had passed since he came to Silverdale, and they had left their mark on him.