“Pardon me,” laughed Merle, “but we are interested in you and will excuse the hotel you have chosen to patronize. We brought these roses for you from La Siesta”—as she spoke she presented him with the beautiful blooms—“and if Lieutenant Munson will be kind enough to come out to our automobile he will find there some books, also a box of fruit and a few delicacies which we hope will help to make your stay here just a little more tolerable.” “You’re kind indeed,” murmured Dick gratefully. “Don’t worry about me,” he added cheerfully, “I’ll have a fine rest here, and will be able to catch up with my arrears of reading.” And in this philosophic frame of mind the prisoner was left to begin his holiday. CHAPTER XVI—Pierre Luzon Returns IN the outside world the question on everybody’s lips was—who had fired the fatal shot among the pine woods? The young reprobate had been thoroughly despised, but he had no known enemies except Willoughby. So while Willoughby’s staunch friends could only reiterate the question in vain perplexity, most people were inclined to answer it with Dick’s name. The angry quarrel between the two young men was universally known and had been subjected to sundry embellishments—for example, the threatened horse-whipping had become an actual recorded event, and so on. And even there were whispers about rivalry in some love affair—that Marshall had had his eye on one of the young ladies at La Siesta where Dick for some time had been a constant caller. So among the cowboys on the ranch, the oil drillers who frequented the Bakersfield saloons and had often enough stood around while young Thurston had set up the drinks, the newspaper reading public generally for whom all the facts had been set forth in elaborate detail—the universal concensus of opinion seemed to be that Dick Willoughby was the man. Not that this verdict of popular opinion carried with it any real reprobation. Everyone agreed that the worthless degenerate had met even a kindlier fate than he merited. Had he lived, not all his father’s millions could have long saved him either from the penitentiary or an asylum for the insane. A week passed. Thurston brooded in solitude, but at his bidding Leach Sharkey kept up active investigations with a view to nose out every bit of evidence that could tell against the accused man. Sharkey worked, not from any special animosity against Willoughby, but from keen professional pride. Dick accepted his confinement with manly fortitude. It. was one of those untoward happenings that come into some people’s lives for no obvious reason, but he was calm in the confidence that everything would be made clear in a very short time.