that triumphant rascal with an equally gracious bow, "we leave you in
possession of the field--temporarily. However, if anybody should
drive up in a hack and lean out and ask you, just tell him Buck
Ogilvy has another trump tucked away in his kimono."

Bryce turned to go, but with a sudden impulse Shirley laid her hand
on his arm--his left arm. "Bryce!" she murmured.

He lifted her hand gently from his forearm, led her to the front of
the locomotive, and held her hand up to the headlight. Her fingers
were crimson with blood.

"Your uncle's killer did that, Shirley," he said ironically. "It's
only a slight flesh-wound, but that is no fault of your allies. Good-
night."

And he left her standing, pale of face and trembling, in the white
glare of the headlight.




CHAPTER XXXII


Shirley made no effort to detain Bryce Cardigan as he walked to his
car and climbed into it. Ogilvy remained merely long enough to give
orders to the foreman to gather up the tools, store them in the
machine-shop of Cardigan's mill, and dismiss his gang; then he, too,
entered the automobile, and at a word from Bryce, the car slid