“Guess that’s good enough for you and all others here. And now take my advice, Willoughby. You’ll come quietly with me to Bakersfield. I’ve no special grudge against you, but have my obvious duty to perform. You threatened young Marshall more than once in all our hearing, and it will be up to you to prove yourself guiltless of his death. You bring round Mr. Thurston’s automobile, Rover. We start right now.” Everything had happened so rapidly that none of the cowboys, had they so desired, could have protested or interfered. Meanwhile the news had spread, for others among the ranch hands were coming up and crowding toward the verandah rails. General sympathy was obviously with Dick Several of the onlookers advanced and shook his manacled hands. “All right, Mr. Willoughby.” “You’ll be home again tomorrow,” “Buck up, it’s a ridiculous charge”—these were among their expressions of encouragement. Dick just smiled his thanks—a wan, wistful smile. He now had himself under perfect control—even his resentment toward Sharkey had been allowed to evaporate. “Very well,” he said quietly, addressing the sleuth. “I’ll give you no trouble, Sharkey. Let us get away from here as quickly as possible.” Just then Lieutenant Munson came hurriedly onto the scene. For a moment he looked thunderstruck when he saw the handcuffs around Dick’s wrists. “Great Scott, Dick! What’s the meaning of this?” Then without waiting for a reply he turned to the sleuth. “I’ve just heard about young Thurston’s death, but you’re surely not going to mix up Dick Willoughby’s name with it, Mr. Sharkey? You must know that he would have nothing to do with such a cowardly crime.” “He can prove all that at the proper time and place,” was the cool, determined rejoinder. “Don’t interfere, Munson,” interposed Dick. “Mr. Sharkey considers that he is doing his duty. That’s an end to all argument. I’ll have no difficulty in obtaining my release once we get to Bakersfield.” “And the lieutenant can come along with us if he likes,” observed the sleuth, conciliated by his prisoner’s sensible view of things. “As Mr. Willoughby’s best friend, you can see that everything’s done right, Mr. Munson.” “But why these handcuffs?” “I know my own business,” replied the sleuth, with returning severity, as he touched the constable’s star on his breast. “And as a soldier you should know the wisdom of letting it go at that, sir.” Munson turned to Mr. Thurston. All through the colloquy the ranch-owner had spoken not a word. He had dropped onto the bench beside the still swathed body of his son, and was sitting there with bowed head and stolidly fixed eyes. “You are no party to this accusation, Mr. Thurston?” the lieutenant enquired. “I am sorry for the blow that has fallen on you. But you can’t seriously believe that Dick Willoughby’s the man who fired that shot.” As he spoke he pointed at the dead rigid form.