“You have no choice but to accept it,” said the lawyer. “It would be foolish to deceive yourself; San Antonio Rancho is sold, and with the payment just made, you, by the terms of your contract, are compelled to give immediate possession. I can only advise you to take your medicine like a man, but don’t let those Los Angeles gentlemen know that you are swallowing a bitter dose.” He refolded the papers, and pushed them across the table. “Now, Mr. Thurston, if there is anything I can do to assist you in the prosecution of your son’s murderer, I stand ready to do so.” Ben Thurston arose. “We’ll talk about that tomorrow. I’ll hang Dick Willoughby right enough in good time. Meanwhile you tell me the rancho is sold—that I have lost my great estate for less than half its value? Hell! Isn’t that enough for one night?” And he stalked wrathfully out of the room, slamming the door behind him. “He sold at the wrong price,” mused the lawyer with a quiet smile. “Perhaps he’ll be trying next to hang the wrong man.” CHAPTER XVIII—Elusive Riches IN the meantime the quartet at the store were making a night of it. With old Pierre Luzon peacefully asleep in the adjoining room, there were many things to speak about. Tom Baker recounted in elaborate detail his story of interviews with the governor and state officials at Sacramento, the weary and harassing delays before parole was finally granted, his own dogged determination, together with the artful pulling of political strings that had finally brought about the results desired. Then there was the trip to San Quentin, the breaking of the joyful news to Pierre Luzon in his cell, the delivery of the paroled convict into Tom’s hands, and the clever solution of all further difficulties by hiring an automobile for the journey south. The narrative was all very interesting, each listener eagerly followed every word, and at the close Tom Baker’s chest had expanded several inches. “I tell you boys, there’s no man alive could have done what I did. The business was in the right hands. If it hadn’t been for me, you wouldn’t have Pierre Luzon here tonight.” “But if Pierre Luzon hadn’t written that letter,” growled Buck Ashley, “you would never have started for Sacramento and San Quentin.” “Well, all’s well that ends well,” discreetly interposed Munson, as he raked the smouldering wood ashes together. “Gee, but its cold tonight.” Jack Rover rose and tossed another log onto the fire. In a moment a bright flame sprang up. “The bottle’s empty,” observed the sheriff. “The next one’s on me, Buck.” “Guess we’ll charge it to syndicate account,” grinned the storekeeper, whose momentary grouch seemed to have been dissipated by the cheerful blaze. “We’ll have to open books, boys, and go about things in a reg’lar way,” he added, as he drew the bolt of the door that communicated with the store and groped his way into the darkness beyond.