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He shook his head with a forced kind of smile. It became him, however, for he smiled rarely; and the smile was like a lantern turned on his face; it gave light and warmth to its quiet strength–or hardness.

“You were always quizzing,” she said, with an attempt at a laugh–“always trying to find things out. That’s why you made them reckon with you out here. You always could see behind things; always would have your own way; always were meant to be a success.”

She was beginning to get control of herself again, was trying hard to keep things on the surface. “You were meant to succeed–you had to,” she added.

“I’ve been a failure–a dead failure,” he answered, slowly. “So they say. So they said. You heard them, Jo.”

He jerked his head toward the open window.

“Oh, those drunken fools!” she exclaimed, indignantly, and her face hardened. “How I hate drink! It spoils everything.”

There was silence for a moment. They were both thinking of the same thing–of the same man. He repeated a question.

“What brings you out here, Jo?” he asked, gently.

“Dorland,” she answered, her face setting into determination and anxiety.

His face became pinched. “Dorl!” he said, heavily. “What for, Jo? What do you want with Dorl?”

“When Cynthy died she left her five hundred dollars a year to the baby, and–“

“Yes, yes, I know. Well, Jo?”

“Well, it was all right for five years–Dorland paid it in; but for five years he hasn’t paid anything. He’s taken it, stolen it from his own child by his own honest wife. I’ve come to get it–anyway, to stop him from doing it any more. His own child–it puts murder in my heart, Nett! I could kill him.”

He nodded grimly. “That’s likely. And you’ve kept Dorl’s child with your own money all these years?”

“I’ve got four hundred dollars a year, Nett, you know; and I’ve been dressmaking–they say I’ve got taste,” she added, with a whimsical smile.

Nett nodded his head. “Five years. That’s twenty-five hundred dollars he’s stolen from his own child. It’s eight years old now, isn’t it?”

“Bobby is eight and a half,” she answered.

“And his schooling, and his clothing, and everything; and you have to pay for it all?”

“Oh, I don’t mind, Nett; it isn’t that. Bobby is Cynthy’s child, and I love him–love him; but I want him to have his rights. Dorl must give up his hold on that money–or–“

He nodded gravely. “Or you’ll set the law on him?”

“It’s one thing or the other. Better to do it now when Bobby is young and can’t understand.”

“Or read the newspapers,” he commented, thoughtfully.

“I don’t think I’ve a hard heart,” she continued, “but I’d like to punish him, if it wasn’t that he’s your brother, Nett, and if it wasn’t for Bobby. Dorland was dreadfully cruel, even to Cynthy.”

“How did you know he was up here?” he asked.

“From the lawyer that pays over the money. Dorland has had it sent out here to Kowatin this two years. And he sent word to the lawyer a month ago that he wanted it to get here as usual. The letter left the same day as I did, and it got here yesterday with me, I suppose. He’ll be after it–perhaps to-day. He wouldn’t let it wait long, Dorl wouldn’t.”

Foyle started. “To-day–to-day–“

There was a gleam in his eyes, a setting of the lips, a line sinking into the forehead between the eyes.

“I’ve been watching for him all day, and I’ll watch till he comes. I’m going to say some things to him that he won’t forget. I’m going to get Bobby’s money, or have the law to do it–unless you think I’m a brute, Nett.” She looked at him wistfully.

“That’s all right. Don’t worry about me, Jo. He’s my brother, but I know him–I know him through and through. He’s done everything that a man can do and not be hanged. A thief, a drunkard, and a brute–and he killed a man out here,” he added, hoarsely. “I found it out myself–myself. It was murder.”