In the mass of uncertainty there was, as metallurgists say, of fact only a trace. But the trace of fact was important--important because it was the first tangible evidence coming into her possession of what was going on under the surface of Gibeon. She had promised herself to bring to retribution those who had caused the disappearance of Sheriff Churchill. She felt certain it was the possession of some such evidence as stood before her on her dresser, which lay at the root of the sheriff’s vanishing. The thought was not comforting. Of another thing she felt certain, namely, that the _cache_ she had discovered was no sporadic bit of liquor smuggling, but was a single manifestation of a systematic traffic in the contraband. She calculated the number of the bottles she had seen and the profits derived from that single store of whisky. It amounted to four figures. Supposing that amount were carried across the border weekly!... Here was no little man’s enterprise. Here were returns so great as to indicate the participation of an individual of more than ordinary stature. Also it suggested to her that such individual or group would not tolerate interference with this broad river of dollars.... The fate of Sheriff Churchill corroborated this reflection. The bottle and match box on her dresser were dangerous. They stood as if they realized how dangerous they were, and leered at her. She arose quickly and placed them in a lower drawer, covering them carefully with garments. The woman in her wished she had not made the discovery, and by it confronted herself with the responsibility for taking action. The newspaper proprietor exulted and planned how the most was to be derived from it. For the first time she felt self-distrust and wished for a sure counselor. She realized her aloneness. There was none to whom she could turn for sure advice; none to whom her confidence moved her. Her friends were few. In Gibeon she was confident of the loyalty of Tubal and of Simmy, the printer’s devil. They would fight for her, follow her lead to the ultimate--but neither was such as she could appeal to for guidance. Evan Bartholomew Pell owed her gratitude. Doubtless he felt some rudiments of it and possibly of loyalty. She was dubious of both. He was such a crackling, dry, self-centered creature--not contemptible as she had first seen him. Never again could she visualize him as contemptible. But to go to him for advice in this emergency seemed futile. He would guide her by rule and diagram. He would be pedantic and draw upon printed systems of logic. What she wanted was not cold logic out of a book, but warm, throbbing, inspiring co-operation from out the heart. She glanced at her watch. It told her the hour was verging toward ten. She sat upon the edge of her bed, debating the matter in hand, when there sounded a knocking upon her door. “What is it,” she called.