Within the ranch-house Scotty dropped into the nearest chair.

“Tell me, Rankin,” he began, “who is the new-comer, and where did you get him?” A long leg swung comfortably over its mate.  “And, by the way, while you’re about it, is he six or sixty?  By Jove, I couldn’t tell!”

The host looked at his visitor quizzically.

“Ben, I suppose you mean?”

“Ben, or Tom, I don’t know.  I mean the gentleman on the front steps, the one who didn’t know your name,” and the Englishman related the recent conversation.

The corners of Rankin’s eyes tightened into an unwonted smile as he listened, and then contracted until the corner of the large mouth drew upward in sympathy.

“I’m not surprised, Baker,” he admitted, “that you’re in doubt about Ben’s age.  He’s eight; but I’d be uncertain myself if I didn’t absolutely know.  As to his not knowing my name—­it’s just struck me that I’ve never introduced myself to the little fellow.”

“But how did you come to get him?  This isn’t a country where one sees many children roaming around.”

“No,” the big mouth dropped back into its normal shape; “that’s a fact.  He didn’t just drop in.  I got him by adoption, I suppose; least ways, I asked him to come and live with me, and he accepted.”  The speaker turned to his companion directly.  “You knew Jennie Blair, did you?”

Scotty looked interested.

“Knew of her, but never had the pleasure of an acquaintance.  I always—­”

“Well,” interrupted Rankin impassively, “Ben’s her son.  She died awhile ago, you remember, and somehow it seemed to break Blair all up.  He wouldn’t stay here any longer, and didn’t want to take the kid with him, so I took the youngster in.  As far as I know, the arrangement will stick.”

For a minute there was silence.  Scotty observed his host shrewdly, almost sceptically.

“That’s all of the story, is it?” he asked at last.

“All, as far as I know.”

Scotty continued his observation a moment longer.

“But not all the kid knows, I judge.”

The host made no comment, and in a distinctively absent manner the Englishman removed his glasses and cleaned the lenses upon the tail of his Sunday frock-coat.

“By the way,”—­Scotty returned the glasses to his nose and sprung the bows over his ears with a snap,—­“what day was it that Blair left?  Did it happen to be Friday?”

“Yes, Friday.”

“And he doesn’t intend ever to return?”

“I believe not.”

The visitor’s eyes flashed swiftly around the room.  The two men were alone.

“I think, then, I see through it.”  The voice was lower than before.  “One of my best mares disappeared night before last, and I haven’t been able to get trace of a hoof or hair since.”

“What?” Rankin was interested at last.

Scotty repeated the statement, and his host eyed him a full half minute steadily.