Ben nodded.  “Yes, I have a few head east of the river.”  He returned the other’s look, and Sidwell had the impression that a searchlight was suddenly shifted upon him.  “Ever been out there?”

The city man indicated an affirmative.  “Yes, twice:  the last time about four years ago.  I went out on purpose to see a steer-roping contest, on the ranch of a man by the name of Gilbert, I remember.  A cowboy they called Pete carried off the honors; had his ‘critter’ down and tied in forty-two seconds.  They told me that was slow time, but I thought it lightning itself.”

“The trick can be done in thirty-five with the wildest,” commented Ben.

Sidwell looked out on the narrow street meditatively.  “I think that cowboy exhibition,” he went on slowly, “was the most typically American scene I have ever witnessed.  The recklessness, the dash, the splendid animal activity—­there’s never been anything like it in the world.”  His eyes returned to Ben’s face.  “Ever hear of Gilbert, did you?”

“I live within twenty-three miles of him.”

Sidwell looked interested.  “What ranch, if I may ask?”

“The Right Angle Triangle we call it.”

“Oh, yes,” Sidwell nodded in recollection.  “Rankin is the proprietor—­a big man with a grandfather’s-shay buckboard.  I saw him while I was there.”

Involuntarily one of Ben’s long legs swung over the other.  “That’s the place!  You have a good memory.”

Sidwell smiled.  “I couldn’t help having in this case.  He reminded me of the satraps of ancient Persia.  He was monarch of all he surveyed.”

Ben said nothing.

“He’s still the big man of the country, I presume?”

“He is dead.”

“Dead?”

“I said so.”

The light of understanding came to the city man.  “I see,” he observed.  “He is gone, and you—­”

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Sidwell,” interrupted the other, “but suppose we change the subject?”

Sidwell colored, then he laughed.  “I beg your pardon, Mr. Blair.  No offence was intended, I assure you.  Mr. Rankin interested me, that was all.”

Again Ben said nothing, and the conversation lapsed.

Meanwhile within doors another drama had been taking place.  A very discomposed young lady had met Scotty just out of hearing.

“What made you stop Mr. Sidwell, papa?” she asked indignantly.  “Why didn’t you let him come in?”

“Because I didn’t choose to,” explained Scotty, bluntly.

“But I wanted him to,” she said imperiously.  “I don’t care to see Ben to-night.”

Her father looked at her steadily.  “And I wish you to see him,” he insisted.  “You must be hypnotized to behave the way you’re doing!  You forget yourself completely!”

The brown eyes of the girl flashed.  “And you forget yourself!  I’m no longer a child!  I won’t see him to-night unless I wish to!”

Easy-going Scotty was aroused.  His weak chin set stubbornly.