Barrison sat and stared at the mild, respectable old fellow, who so patently and typically looked the part of a decent, sober, and trusty servant, and tried to visualize him as a bold, bad man of the wicked West. But some things are past the powers of the human imagination. He thought, with a sort of grimly humorous awe, of the strange alchemy of time, and shook his head, giving the problem up, as have better and wiser men before him. Wrenn went on with his story: “My girls were brought up in a rough-and-tumble way, I’m afraid. It affected them differently. The older Caterina—she was named for her mother—never took kindly to it. She was selfish and headstrong—they both were, for that matter. But I think Marita had more heart. Not that I ever called out much affection in either of them!” He bent his gray head for a moment. “Anyway, I didn’t give them much of a bringing up. Marita knocked about with the boys and learned to ride like a puncher herself. But Caterina—Kitty, we called her—hated the whole life, and when a rich prospector came along, she threw us over like a shot and went away with him. She was only just eighteen, but she was ambitious already. She wanted to get some pleasure out of life, as she had said twenty times a day since she could speak. I—I shall not mention her name, sir—the name which she is known by now, for—you would know it.” It was odd, the way he dropped so constantly into the respectful “sir,” and all the air and manner of a servant. It was clear that his was one of those pliable natures that can be molded by life and conditions into almost any shape. His instinct of fatherhood, his late-awakened sense of conscience, responsibility and compunction, were struggling up painfully through the accumulated handicap of a lifetime of habit. “I know her name,” Barrison said quietly. “You mean Kitty Legaye, don’t you?” The start that Wrenn gave now betrayed an even livelier terror than had yet moved him. “I didn’t say it!” he gasped in fright and agitation. “I have never said it—never once, through all these years! She always made us swear we would tell nobody. I don’t know what she would do if she thought I had spoken! She was so ashamed of us—and I can hardly wonder at that, sir. She has done so well herself! Oh, sir, if ever it comes up, you—you’ll see that she knows that it wasn’t I who told?” “I certainly will,” said the detective, pitying—though with a little contempt—this father’s abject fear of his unnatural daughter’s displeasure. “As a matter of fact, I found it out by accident. I only told you that I knew just now to show you that you have nothing to conceal about her. Nor,” he added, entirely upon impulse, “about Mr. Dukane!” This time Wrenn’s jaw dropped, in the intensity of his astonishment. “You—you know about—him—too!” he muttered breathlessly. “Is there anything you—do not know?”