Why Jerry Rook had been so anxious to get him away, Pierre Robideau could never tell, though he had some terrible suspicions about it-- almost pointing out the old squatter as one of his father's murderers. It was this sort of curiosity that caused him to turn among the trees, and steal back to the concealment he had so recently forsaken. Perhaps, too, he may have wished once more to gratify his eyes by gazing on that loved form so unceremoniously hurried out of his sight. Whether or not, he was soon in his old position, and gazing intently through the curtain of leaves. So far as Jerry Rook was concerned, he obtained the satisfaction he had sought for. His quondam host was in front of the house, in conversation with his daughter, who stood in the porch above him. Pierre had arrived at the moment when that question was put, so nearly concerning himself. He did not hear it, but he noticed the embarrassed air of the young lady, and the quick change that came over her countenance as she adroitly evaded the answer. From that moment Jerry Rook was no longer regarded. A third personage had appeared upon the scene, and the pleasing look with which Jerry Rook's daughter appeared to receive him sent a pang through the heart of Pierre Robideau. The exclamation had told him who the new comer was. But he did not heed that. No time could efface from his memory the image of one who had so cruelly outraged him, and six years had produced but little change in Alf Brandon. Pierre knew him on sight. With heart beating wildly, he remained a silent witness of the scene that ensued. At first it beat bitterly, as he marked and misinterpreted the complaisant look with which Lena regarded his rival. Ere long came a delightful change, as he listened to the dialogue-- plainly overheard where he stood--and, when he heard the final speech, and saw the discomfited lover stride off towards the gate, he could scarce restrain himself from a shout of joy. He was fain to have sprung across the creek, and once more enfolded that fair form in his passionate embrace. But he saw that mischief might spring from such imprudence; and, turning from the spot, he walked silently away--his heart now swelling with triumph, now subsiding into sweet contentment. STORY ONE, CHAPTER NINETEEN. A CONCLAVE OF SCOUNDRELS. There was a time when "Slaughter's Hotel" was the first and only house of its kind in the town of Helena. That was when Slaughter, senior, presided over its destinies. Now that he was no more, and his son walked rather slipshod in his shoes, it had sunk into a second-rate place of entertainment--an establishment more respectable, or, at all events, more pretentious, having swung out its sign.