The room itself was comfortable enough. It was evidently Bannister’s own, judging from its contents. Two or three rifles hung in racks. On top of the bookcase was a half-filled tobacco pouch and several pipes, all of them lying carelessly on a pile of music which ran from Verdi to ragtime. In his books she found the same shallow catholicity. Side by side with Montaigne’s “Essays,” a well-worn Villon in thé original, Stevenson’s “Letters” and “Anna Karenina,” dozens of paper-covered novels, mostly the veriest trash, held their disreputable own. Some of them were French, others detective stories, still others melodramatic tales of love. The piano was an expensive one, but not in the best of tune. Everything in the room contributed to the effect of capacity untempered by discipline and discrimination. Plainly he was a man of taste who had outraged and deadened his power of differentiation by abuse. For Helen the silent night was alive with alarms. The moaning of the wind, the slightest rustle outside, the creaking of a board, were enough to set her heart wildly beating. She did not undress, but by the light of her dim, ragged wick sought for composure from the pages of Montaigne and Stevenson. When the first gray day streaks came she was still reading, but with their coming she blew out her light and lay down. She fell asleep at once, and it was five hours later that the knock of her attendant awakened her from heavy slumber. With the bright sunlit day she was again mistress of her nerves, prepared to meet resolutely whatever danger might confront her. But the morning passed quietly enough, and after lunch the Indian woman led her into the little valley promenade in front of the buildings and sat down on a rock while her captive enjoyed the sunshine. The course of Helen’s saunterings took her toward the rock slide that made the gateway of the valley. She was wondering if it could have been left unguarded, when a rough voice warned her back. Looking round, she caught sight of a man seated cross-legged on a great boulder. It took only a second glance to certify that the man was her former foreman, Judd Morgan. She had never seen anything more malevolent than his triumph. “Better stay in the valley, Miss Messiter. Y’u might right easily get lost outside,” he jeered. Without reply she turned her back on him and began to retrace her way to the house. Stung by her contempt, he sprang up and strode after her. “So y’u won’t speak to me, eh? Think yourself too good to speak to a common everyday God damned white man, do y’u?” Apparently she did not know he was on the map. In a fury he caught at her shoulder and whirled her round. “Now, by God, do y’u see me? I’m Judd Morgan, the man y’u kicked off the Lazy D. I told y’u then y’u were going to be sorry long as y’u lived.” “Don’t you dare touch me, you hound!” Her blazing eyes menaced him so fiercely that he hesitated.