Bethune shrugged. "Who can tell? I know for a certainty that he has never made a cent out of his alleged prospecting. It is true he rides the round-up for a couple of months in the spring and fall, but four months' work at forty dollars a month will hardly suffice for a man's yearly needs." He unconsciously lowered his voice, and continued: "Several ranchers have complained of losing horses and only a few days ago, up near the line, my good friend Corporal Downey, of the Mounted, told me that a number of American horses, with brands skillfully doctored, had been regularly making their appearance in Canada. It is an ugly suspicion, and I am making no open accusation, but--one may wonder." The man finished his sandwich, dipped his fingers into the creek, wiped them upon his handkerchief, and proceeded to roll a cigarette. "Speaking of Vil Holland, why did you ask whether he had--imagination?" "Oh, I don't know," replied the girl, lightly. "I just wondered." Bethune regarded her steadily. "Has he been,--er, interfering in any way with your attempt to locate your father's strike?" "Hardly interfering, I should say." "You believe he still follows you?" "Yes." "You do not fear him?" "No." "That is because you do not know him! I tell you he is a dangerous man!" Bethune puffed shortly at his cigarette, hurled it from him, and faced the girl with glowing eyes: "Ah, Miss Sinclair, why don't you end this uncertainty? Why do you continue every day to jeopardize your interests--yes, your very life----?" "Do you mean," interrupted the girl, "why don't I form a partnership with you?"