Cahill remembered the contempt he had felt for his employer as he pulled him to his feet, but now McTurk's appeal seemed just and natural. His point of view was that of the loving and considerate parent. In Cahill's mind there was no moral question involved. If to make his girl rich and a lady, and to lift her out of the life of the Exchange, was a sin the sin was his own and he was willing to “stand for it.” And, like McTurk, he would see that the sin of the father was not visited upon the child. Ranson was rich, foolishly, selfishly rich; his father was a United States Senator with influence enough, and money enough, to fight the law--to buy his son out of jail. Sooner than his daughter should know that her father was one of those who sometimes wore the mask of the Red Rider, Ranson, for all he cared, could go to jail, or to hell. With this ultimatum in his mind, Cahill confronted his would-be son-in-law with a calm and assured countenance. Ranson greeted him with respectful deference, and while Cahill seated himself, Ranson, chatting hospitably, placed cigars and glasses before him. He began upon the subject that touched him the most nearly. “Miss Cahill was good enough to bring up my breakfast this morning,” he said. “Has she told you of what I said to her?” Cahill shook his head. “No, I haven't seen her. We've been taking account of stock all morning.” “Then--then you've heard nothing from her about me?” said Ranson. The post trader raised his head in surprise. “No. Captain Carr spoke to me about your arrest, and then said you wanted to see me first about something private.” The post trader fixed Ranson with his keen, unwavering eyes. “What might that be?” he asked. “Well, it doesn't matter now,” stammered Ranson; “I'll wait until Miss Cahill tells you.” “Any complaint about the food?” inquired the post trader. Ranson laughed nervously. “No, it's not that,” he said. He rose, and, to protect what Miss Cahill evidently wished to remain a secret, changed the subject. “You see you've lived in these parts so long, Mr. Cahill,” he explained, “and you know so many people, I thought maybe you could put me on the track or give me some hint as to which of that Kiowa gang really did rob the paymaster.” Ranson was pulling the cork from the whiskey bottle, and when he asked the question Cahill pushed his glass from him and shook his head. Ranson looked up interrogatively and smiled. “You mean you think I did it myself?” he asked. “I didn't understand from Captain Carr,” the post trader began in heavy tones, “that it's my opinion you're after. He said I might be wanted to testify who was present last night in my store.”