Monty was frying bacon with a great sizzling and sputtering on a hot stove when Patricia entered the cabin. Her cheeks showed more color than had been seen in them for weeks. Her eyes were clear and met Monty’s inquiring look with their old, characteristic directness. “Have a good sleep?” he asked with that excessive cheerfulness which is seldom genuine. Monty himself had not slept until dawn was breaking. “Fine, thank you,” Patricia answered more cordially than she had yet spoken to Monty. “Mr. Girard, this may not be a pleasant subject before breakfast, but it’s on my mind.” She paused, looking at Monty inquiringly. “Shoot,” Monty invited calmly. “My mind’s plumb full of unpleasant things, and talking about them can’t make it any worse, Miss Connolly.” “Well, then, I’ve been up to that grave. And it wasn’t made by any murderer. I somehow know it wasn’t. A murderer would have been in a hurry, and I should think he’d try to hide it--and he wouldn’t pick the prettiest spot he could find. And I know perfectly well, Mr. Girard, that if _I_ had killed a man, I wouldn’t spat the dirt down over his grave and make it as nice and even as that grave is up there. And somebody picked some flowers and laid them at the head, Mr. Girard. They had wilted--and I don’t suppose you noticed them. “Besides,” she finished, after an unconscious pause that seemed to sum up her reasoning and lend weight to the argument, “the cat knows all about it. She tried as hard as ever she could to tell me. I--this may sound foolish, but I can’t help believing it--I think the cat was there looking on, and I’m pretty sure it was some one the cat knew and liked.” Monty poured coffee all over Patricia’s plate, his hand shook so. “Gary kinda made a pal uh that cat,” he blurted, before he realized what meaning Patricia must read into the sentence. “The cat was here when Gary arrived, I suppose,” Patricia retorted sharply, squaring her chin. “I can’t imagine him bringing a cat with him.” A look of relief flashed into Monty’s face. “That cat’s been here on the place for about eight years, as close as I can figure. Steve Carson got it from a woman in Vegas when it was a kitten, and packed it out here in a nose bag hung on his burro’s pack. Him and the cat wasn’t ever more than three feet apart. There’s been something queer about that cat, ever since Steve came up missing.” Monty started for the door, having it in his mind to call the boy to breakfast. But a look in Patricia’s eyes stopped him, and he turned back and sat down opposite her at the table. “I’d let that boy sleep--all day if he wants to,” Patricia remarked. “He’ll do enough talking about us and our affairs, as it is. I wish you’d tell me about this Steve Carson. I never heard of him before.”