An hour of rapid travel brought him to the Gunnison road. He swung to the ground and examined the dusty roadbed. Apparently he was satisfied, for he took his sweat-stained horse back into the brush and tied it to a cottonwood. From its case beside the saddle he drew a rifle. He retraced his own steps and selected carefully a place among the thick bushes by the roadside. With his pocketknife he cut eye-holes in the bandanna handkerchief that had been round his neck and tied it over his face in such a way as to conceal his features entirely. Then he carefully emptied from the rifle all the cartridges it contained and dropped them into his pocket. These preparations made, he sat down and waited. There came to him very soon the rumble of wheels. Presently a one-horse trap appeared at a curve of the road. Captain Kilmeny was the driver. Jack rose noiselessly and thrust the barrel of his rifle through the bushes. He was within six feet of the road and he waited until his cousin was almost abreast of him. "Throw up your hands!" The captain knew in an instant what he was up against. A masked man with a rifle in his hands could mean only one thing. Ned Kilmeny was no fool. He knew when to fight and when to surrender. His hands went into the air. "Kick that rifle into the road--with your foot, not with your hands." The Englishman did as he was told. "What do you want?" he demanded, looking sharply at the masked bandit. "I want that satchel beside you. Drop it out." Again the officer obeyed orders. He asked no questions and made no comment. "There's room to turn here by backing. Hit the grit for the Lodge." After he had faced about, Ned Kilmeny had one word to say before leaving. "I know who you are, and there's just one name for your kind--you're an out and out rotter." "It's a difference of opinion that makes horse races, captain," answered the masked man promptly. Ned Kilmeny, as he drove back to the Lodge, was sick at heart. He came of a family of clean, honest gentlemen. Most of them had been soldiers. Occasionally one had gone to the devil as this young cousin of his had done. But there was something in this whole affair so contemptible that it hurt his pride. The theft itself was not the worst thing. The miner had traded on their faith in him. He had lied to them, had made a mock of their friendly offers to help him. Even the elements of decency seemed to be lacking in him. India and Moya were on the veranda when the captain drove up. One glance at his grim face told them something had gone wrong. "I've been held up," he said simply. "Held up!" "Robbed--with a rifle within reach of my hand all the time." "But--how?" gasped India. Moya, white to the lips, said nothing. A premonition of the truth clutched icily at her heart. "A masked man stopped me just as I swung round a bend about three miles from Gunnison. He ordered me to throw out the satchel with the money. I did as I was told."