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Galbraith was trembling with excitement. Pierre warned him by a look, and almost immediately afterward gave him a reassuring nod, as if an important and favourable idea had occurred to him.

Jen, looking at the Sergeant’s handsome face, said: “It’s six months to a day since you were here, Sergeant Tom.”

“What an almanac you are, Miss!”

Pretty Pierre sipping his coffee here interrupted musingly: “But her almanac is not always so reliable. So I think. When was I here last, Ma’m’selle?”

With something like menace in her eyes Jen replied: “You were here six months ago to-day, when you won thirty dollars from our Val; and then again, just thirty days after that.”

“Ah, so! You remember with a difference.”

A moment after, Sergeant Tom being occupied in talking to Jen, Pierre whispered to Peter Galbraith: “His horse–then the laudanum!”

Galbraith was puzzled for a moment, but soon nodded significantly, and the sinister droop to his eyes became more marked. He turned to the Sergeant and said, “Your horse must be fed as well as yourself, Sergeant Tom. I’ll look after the beast, and Jen will take care of you. There’s some fresh coffee, isn’t there, Jen?”

Jen nodded an affirmative. Galbraith knew that the Sergeant would trust no one to feed his horse but himself, and the offer therefore was made with design.

Sergeant Tom replied instantly: “No, I’ll do it if someone will show me the grass pile.”

Pierre slipped quietly from the counter, and said, “I know the way, Galbraith. I will show.”

Jen turned to the sitting-room, and Sergeant Tom moved to the tavern door, followed by Pierre, who, as he passed Galbraith, touched the old man’s waistcoat pocket, and said: “Thirty drops in the coffee.”

Then he passed out, singing softly: [bb]!!!! “And he sleepeth so well, and he sleepeth so long The fight it was hard, my dear; And his foes were many and swift and strong Oh, the sweet Saint Gabrielle hear!” [bb] There was danger ahead for Sergeant Thomas Gellatly. Galbraith followed his daughter to the sitting-room. She went to the kitchen and brought bread, and cold venison, and prairie fowl, and stewed dried apples–the stay and luxury of all rural Canadian homes. The coffee-pot was then placed on the table. Then the old man said: “Better give him some of that old cheese, Jen, hadn’t you? It’s in the cellar.” He wanted to be rid of her for a few moments. “S’pose I had,” and Jen vanished.

Now was Galbraith’s chance. He took the vial of laudanum from his pocket, and opened the coffee-pot. It was half full. This would not suit. Someone else–Jen–might drink the coffee also! Yet it had to be done. Sergeant Tom should not go on. Inspector Jules and his Riders of the Plains must not be put upon the track of Val. Twelve hours would make all the difference. Pour out a cup of coffee?–Yes, of course, that would do. It was poured out quickly, and then thirty drops of laudanum were carefully counted into it. Hark, they are coming back!–Just in time. Sergeant Tom and Pierre enter from outside, and then Jen from the kitchen. Galbraith is pouring another cup of coffee as they enter, and he says: “Just to be sociable I’m goin’ to have a cup of coffee with you, Sergeant Tom. How you Riders of the Plains get waited on hand and foot!” Did some warning flash through Sergeant Tom’s mind or body, some mental shock or some physical chill? For he distinctly shivered, though he was not cold. He seemed suddenly oppressed with a sense of danger. But his eyes fell on Jen, and the hesitation, for which he did not then try to account, passed. Jen, clear-faced and true, invited him to sit and eat, and he, starting half-abstractedly, responded to her “Draw nigh, Sergeant Tom,” and sat down. Commonplace as the words were, they thrilled him, for he thought of a table of his own in a home of his own, and the same words spoken everyday, but without the “Sergeant,”–simply “Tom.”