“Go into the back room, Cherry; there’s going to be trouble.”

“Who’s there?” inquired Dextry through the door, to gain time.  Suddenly, without a word, the girl glided to the hot-blast heater, now cold and empty, which stood in a corner of the room.  These stoves, used widely in the North, are vertical iron cylinders into which coal is poured from above.  She lifted the lid and peered in to find it a quarter full of dead ashes, then turned with shining eyes and parted lips to Glenister.  He caught the hint, and in an instant the four sacks were dropped softly into the feathery bottom and the ashes raked over.  The daring manoeuvre was almost as quick as the flash of woman’s wit that prompted it, and was carried through while the answer to Dextry’s question was still unspoken.

Then Glenister opened the door carelessly and admitted the group of men.

“We’ve got a search-warrant to look through your house,” said Voorhees.

“What are you looking for?”

“Gold-dust from Anvil Creek.”

“All right—­search away.”

They rapidly scoured the premises, covering every inch, paying no heed to the girl, who watched them with indifferent eyes, nor to the old man, who glared at their every movement.  Glenister was carelessly sarcastic, although he kept his right arm free, while beneath his sang-froid was a thoroughly trained alertness.

McNamara directed the search with a manner wholly lacking in his former mock courtesy.  It was as though he had been soured by the gall of defeat.  The mask had fallen off now, and his character showed—­insistent, overbearing, cruel.  Towards the partners he preserved a contemptuous silence.

The invaders ransacked thoroughly, while a dozen times the hearts of Cherry Malotte and her two companions stopped, then lunged onward, as McNamara or Voorhees approached, then passed the stove.  At last Voorhees lifted the lid and peered into its dark interior.  At the same instant the girl cried out, sharply, flinging herself from her position, while the marshal jerked his head back in time to see her dash upon Dextry.

“Don’t!  Don’t!” She cried her appeal to the old man.  “Keep cool.  You’ll be sorry, Dex—­they’re almost through.”

The officer had not seen any movement on Dextry’s part, but doubtless her quick eye had detected signs of violence.  McNamara emerged, glowering, from the back room at that moment.

“Let them hunt,” the girl was saying, while Dextry stared dazedly over her head.  “They won’t find anything.  Keep cool and don’t act rash.”

Voorhees’s duties sat uncomfortably upon him at the best, and, looking at the smouldering eyes of the two men, he became averse to further search in a powdery household whose members itched to shoot him in the back.

“It isn’t here,” he reported; but the politician only scowled, then spoke for the first time directly to the partners: