"So were Johnny Slade's," inserts Ferdie, who has just now joined the party and conversation. "Besides, Buck Powers says the Cap was a terror to gamblers and desperadoes out here,--though I like him all the better for it." But here Miss Travenion astonishes them all. She says calmly, though there is a tremor in her voice: "I refuse to give any opinion of Captain Lawrence's conduct until I have spoken to him." "What! You are going to--to speak to that awful man again?" gasps the widow, turning pale. Then she suddenly whispers, "Don't tell him what I said about him. He might murder us." And seemingly frightened at the thought of the blood-thirsty captain's vengeance, she takes her departure hurriedly for her own stateroom, and locks herself in. She is very shortly followed by Ferdie and her son, to whom his half-way sweetheart says as he departs: "Permit me to satisfy myself upon this affair in my own way!" Then, they having gone from her, she sinks down and shudders, though all the time she does justice to the man of her thoughts, and defends him, and says, "I don't believe it. He is too gentle," and finally, having persuaded herself that it is all a tissue of falsehoods, unlocks her door and steps out into the main car, to find herself face to face with this so-called desperado, who is calmly reading one of _Harper's Monthlies_, his "deeds of blood" not seeming to hang very heavily on his conscience. A moment after, Miss Travenion remarks suddenly: "Captain Lawrence, will you pardon me if I ask you a question?" and her eyes grow bright, but her cheeks are pale, and her lips tremble as she speaks. "Certainly," says Harry. As he turns to her, the girl hesitates and falters, for it has suddenly come to her, if this man is innocent, he will not forgive; but forcing herself to the ordeal, she falters out: "People tell me what I will not believe, that--that--you, while occupied here in the arts of peace, have hung up men by the dozens to telegraph poles? Is it true, Captain Lawrence?" And he, some strange fear in his eyes, rises to her question, and though he stands apparently calm, the strong fingers of his hand tremble a little as they grasp the arm of the seat, and his face grows also pale, and there is a slight twitch on one corner of his moustache as he murmurs sadly: "And they say that of me?" "Yes!--Is it true?" Then, after a moment's pause, the young man answers firmly and perhaps proudly: "In the troublous times of 1867 and '68, surrounded by gamblers, desperadoes and cut-throats, who daily sacrificed the lives of innocent men and made a mockery of both law and justice, I did what I considered my duty as a good citizen. Do you blame me for it?" "You--you hung men without trial by law?" "Yes--do you blame me?" But her only answer is a frightened, "Oh! how could you?" and Erma has swept past him into her stateroom, the door of which closes suddenly after her.