lay down again. The surroundings were all very neat and homelike, and now that Ruthven had come to the point of his errand he was conscious of a growing constraint.
"I wanted to see your father, Miss McKenzie," said he.
She seemed to flinch, although her eyes regarded him steadily. "Is it very important?" she returned. "Father is not well and is lying down. I hate to disturb him if it is not necessary."
"It may be important, or it may not. You can be the best judge of that by telling me if you know a man named Weasel Morrison, and whether your father sent an anonymous letter to a deputy sheriff in Dry Wash warning Miss McKenzie! Forgive me if I have startled you."
The girl had jumped forward in her chair, so shocked by his words that she gasped and pressed a hand to her throat! A chill sped through Ruthven's nerves. Lois' actions convinced him that she knew the scoundrelly Morrison, or knew of him; but his sympathies were aroused, and he started to his feet, anxious and a bit dismayed. With a fluttering hand the girl waved him back to his scat.
"Why do you ask such questions, Mr. Ruthven?" she queried, in a voice scarcely more than a whisper.
"Because," he answered sympathetically, "it may be that I can do your father a service. I want to be your friend, and his, if you will let me. What I am trying to do this morning. I feel sure, is what Miss Arnold would want me to do if she were here to speak. My motives are disinterested, entirely so, apart from the one desire to render your father a service."
There was a stir in a doorway leading to another room. Ruthven looked around to see McKenzie, clad in a dressing gown and slippers and his gaunt face like death itself, standing there. His burning eyes were fixed upon the caller.
"Father, go back!" begged the girl. "You are not fit to be on your feet." She turned appealingly to Ruthven. "You see?" she added.
Her father, however, pushed resolutely into the room and came slowly toward a chair. "Mr. Ruthven, Lois," said he, in a tone which he strove hard to command, "is a friend. I can read that in his face, and I can see it in his actions. Let me talk with him, dear. I am no weakling"—he smiled faintly—"and I guess I know how to face trouble."
He turned to Ruthven. "I know Weasel Morrison," he went on, "and my daughter knows of him only through me. As for the rest, I am willing to acknowledge to you that I sent an anonymous letter of warning to the deputy sheriff in Dry Wash. You have something to say about Morrison, Mr. Ruthven. What is it?"
"He has been captured!"
A wild exclamation broke from the girl's lips. McKenzie dropped into the chair as though felled by a blow. A moment later the girl was perched on the arm of the chair, one arm around his neck and one hand stroking his graying hair.
"Never mind, daddy," she murmured. "Right is right, and you'll not be made to suffer. Don't let this bother you any more. We both hoped that Morrison would be captured, and we both did what we could to have it happen. If necessary, we can face the world together—and leave Burt City if we have to."
With an effort, McKenzie secured control of himself. Taking the girl's head in his hands, he drew it toward his and kissed her forehead.
"What do I care for myself, Lois?" he answered. "You are the one. I have built up an honored name as the best heritage I could leave you; and
