“What about that investment in futurities you made on the train? The month is more than half up. Do you see any chance of realizing?” “It looks now as if I might be a false prophet, but I feel way down deep that I won’t. In this prophet’s business confidence is half the stock in trade.” “Really. I’m very curious to know what it is you predicted. Was it something good?” “Good for me,” he nodded. “Then I think you’ll get it,” she laughed. “I have noticed that it is the people that expect things—and then go out and take them—that inherit the earth these days. The meek have been dispossessed.” “I’m glad I have your good wishes.” “I didn’t say you had, but you’ll get along just as well without them,” she answered with a cool little laugh as she rose. “I’d like to discuss that proposition with you more at length. May I call on you some evening this week, Miss Mackenzie?” There was a sparkle of hidden malice in her answer. “You’re too late, Mr. Collins. We’ll have to leave it undiscussed. I’m going to leave to-day for my uncle s ranch, the Rocking Chair.” He was distinctly disappointed, though he took care not to show it. Nevertheless, the town felt empty after her train had gone. He was glad when later in the day a message came calling him to Epitaph. It took him at least seventy-five miles nearer her. Before he had been an hour at Epitaph the sheriff knew he had struck gold this time. Men were in town spending money lavishly, and at a rough description they answered to the ones he wanted. Into the Gold Nugget Saloon that evening dropped Val Collins, big, blond, and jaunty. He looked far less the vigorous sheriff out for business than the gregarious cowpuncher on a search for amusement. Del Hawkes, an old-time friend of his staging days, pounced on him and dragged him to the bar, whence his glance fell genially on the roulette wheel and its devotees, wandered casually across the impassive poker and Mexican monte players, took in the enthroned musicians, who were industriously murdering “La Paloma,” and came to rest for barely an instant at a distant faro table. In the curly-haired good-looking young fellow facing the dealer he saw one of the men he had come seeking. Nor did he need to look for the hand with the missing trigger finger to be sure it was York Neil—that same gay, merry-hearted York with whom he used to ride the range, changed now to a miscreant who had elected to take the short cut to wealth. But the man beside Neil, the dark-haired, pallid fellow from whose presence something at once formidable and sinister and yet gallant seemed to breathe—the very sight of him set the mind of Collins at work busily upon a wild guess. Surely here was a worthy figure upon whom to set the name and reputation of the notorious Wolf Leroy.