Perhaps Billy White may require here a little explanation. All things considered, Billy thought Jeff would be better off in jail, with a friend in the opposite camp working for his interest, than getting himself foolishly killed by a hasty posse. If we are cynical, we may say that, being young, Billy was not averse to the role of _deus ex machina_; perhaps a thought of friendly gratitude was not lacking. Then, too, adventure for adventure's sake is motive enough--in youth. Or, as a final self-revelation, we may hint that if Jeff was a rival, so too was Lake--and one more eligible. Let us not be cynical, however, or cowardly. Let us say at once shamelessly what we very well know--that youth is the season for clean honor and high emprise; that boy's love is best and truest of all; that poor, honest Billy, in his own dogged and fantastic way, but sought to give true service where he--loved. There, we have said it; and we are shamed. How old are you, sir? Forty? Fifty? Most actions are the result of mixed motives, you say? Well, that is a notable concession--at your age. Let it go at that. Billy, then, acted from mixed motives. When Billy brought back his motives--and the sheriff--Monte still held his negligent attitude in the doorway. He waved a graceful salute. "I want to see Bransford," said the sheriff. "He ees esleepin'," said Monte. "Well, I want to see him anyway!" The sheriff laid a brusk hand on the gatelatch. Monte waved his cigarette airily, flicked the ash from the end with a slender finger, and once more demonstrated that the hand is quicker than the eye. The portentously steady gun in the hand was the first intimation to the eye that the hand had moved at all. It was a very large gun as to caliber, the sheriff noted. As it was pointed directly at his nose he was favorably situated to observe--looking along the barrel--that the hammer stood at full cock. "Per-rhaps you have some papers for heem?" suggested Monte, with gentle and delicate deference. He still leaned against the doorjamb. "But eef not eet ees bes' that you do not enter thees my leetle house to distur-rb my gues'. That would be to commeet a r-rudeness--no?" The sheriff was a sufficiently brave man, if not precisely a brilliant one. Yet he showed now intelligence of the highest order. He dropped the latch. "You Billy, stop your laughing! Do you know, Mr. Monte, I think you are quite right?" he observed, with a smiling politeness equal to Monte's own. "That would be rude, certainly. My mistake. An Englishman's house is his castle--that sort of thing? If you will excuse me now we will go and get the papers, as you so kindly pointed out." They went away, the sheriff, Billy and motives--Billy still laughing immoderately. Monte went inside and stirred up his guest with a prodding boot-toe. "Meester Jeff," he demanded, "what you been a-doin' now?" Jeff sat up, rumpled his hair, and rubbed his eyes. "Sleepin'," he said.