She ran to the porch and stole silently into the house, emerging with a small medicine case, which she stuck into a pocket of her coat. Once before she had had occasion to use her simple remedies on Sissy--an illness as simple as her remedies; but she could feel something of Mrs. Levins' concern for her offspring, and--and it was an ideal night for a gallop over the plains. It was almost midnight by the Levins' clock when she entered the cabin, and a quick diagnosis of her case with an immediate application of one of her remedies, brought results. At half past twelve Sissy was sleeping peacefully, and Chuck had dozed off, fully dressed, no doubt ready to re-enact his manly and heroic rôle upon call. It was not until Rosalind was ready to go that Mrs. Levins apologized for her husband's rudeness to his guest. "Clay feels awfully bitter against Corrigan. It's because Corrigan is fighting Trevison--and Trevison is Clay's friend--they've been like brothers. Trevison has done so much for us." Rosalind glanced around the cabin. She had meant to ask Chuck why his father had not come on the midnight errand, but had forebore. "Mr. Levins isn't here?" "Clay went away about nine o'clock." The woman did not meet Rosalind's direct gaze; she flushed under it and looked downward, twisting her fingers in her apron. Rosalind had noted a strangeness in the woman's manner when she had entered the cabin, but she had ascribed it to the child's illness, and had thought nothing more of it. But now it burst upon her with added force, and when she looked up again Rosalind saw there was an odd, strained light in her eyes--a fear, a dread--a sinister something that she shrank from. Rosalind remembered the killing of Marchmont, and had a quick divination of impending trouble. "What is it, Mrs. Levins? What has happened?" The woman gulped hard, and clenched her hands. Evidently, whatever her trouble, she had determined to bear it alone, but was now wavering. "Tell me, Mrs. Levins; perhaps I can help you?" "You can!" The words burst sobbingly from the woman. "Maybe you can prevent it. But, oh, Miss Rosalind, I wasn't to say anything--Clay told me not to. But I'm so afraid! Clay's so hot-headed, and Trevison is so daring! I'm afraid they won't stop at anything!" "But what is it?" demanded Rosalind, catching something of the woman's excitement. "It's about the machinery at the butte--the mining machinery. My God, you'll never say I told you--will you? But they're going to blow it up tonight--Clay and Trevison; they're going to dynamite it! I'm afraid there will be murder done!" "Why didn't you tell me before?" The girl stood rigid, white, breathless. "Oh, I ought to," moaned the woman. "But I was afraid you'd tell--Corrigan--somebody--and--and they'd get into trouble with the law!" "I won't tell--but I'll stop it--if there's time! For your sake. Trevison is the one to blame."