And it was to this that James Wynnegate had come, was the first thought of Malcolm Petrie as he surveyed the crude place with its marks of poverty and failure. Like all those intimate with the Wynnegate family, he knew of the mysterious disappearance of Jim Wynnegate at the time of the embezzlement from the Relief Fund. Although his brother, Johnston Petrie, had been the active adviser of the family, he had personally known Jim\'s father, and as he watched Jim now he began to feel a new interest in him. Since the death of his brother Johnston he had assumed control of the Kerhill estate. As he studied the worn man who stood in the strong light of the afternoon, dressed in faded and patched riding-breeches, with a flannel shirt, and careless kerchief knotted about his throat, and with roughened hands that showed their service in manual labor, he thought of him as the soldier he had often seen in the London world. But could those be the eyes of a man who was hiding from justice? Again he looked at the slip of paper which was marked, "Jim Carston, of Carston\'s Ranch."

Instinctively Jim placed the man who stood before him. Even though he had never seen him before, the resemblance to his brother, Johnston Petrie, was unmistakable. The light began to deepen into crimson shadows, and a stillness hung over the ranch. All the men were away in their quarters, with Big Bill guarding them so that the boss should not be disturbed in what he supposed was a possible chance to sell the place.

Diplomatically, Malcolm Petrie began, "This is Mr. Carston?"

"And you?" Jim questioned.

Petrie handed him a card as he said, "Malcolm Petrie, of the firm of Crooks, Petrie & Petrie, solicitors, London, and at your lordship\'s service."

Before Jim could speak, Petrie continued: "Pardon my abruptness in coming on you unawares. Most of the time I allowed myself has been given to locating you."

"Well, Mr. Petrie, go on," was all Jim said, as he turned the card in his hand. He hardly knew what course to pursue. Should he deny or acknowledge to this trustworthy man, who was regarding him with such sympathetic interest, that he was Jim Wynnegate? A hunger to learn something of the world he had left, to be allowed to listen longer to the cultivated speech that fell with such beauty on his starved ears, assailed him.

"Crooks, Petrie & Petrie have been your family solicitors for so many years that I had hoped to be remembered by your lordship." Petrie was determined not to allow this man to escape for a moment from acknowledging his identity, so he pressed him close with his knowledge.

"Mr. Petrie," Jim said, "we are plain people out here, where every man is as good as every other man—and a good deal better," he added, as he remembered the democratic status of the boys. "So please address me as Mr. Carston. Won\'t you be seated?" As he spoke he pointed to the bench near the hut.

Petrie adjusted his glasses, the better to observe the man, as he said: "Since you desire it. Only I have come a very long way to inform you that you have a right to the title."

The cause of Mr. Petrie\'s presence flashed through Jim\'s mind. "Then my cousin—"

"Is dead, my lord—Mr. Carston."

Monotonously Jim repeated: "Dead. Henry should have outlived me."

"I am sorry to be the bearer of distressing news, your lordship—"

But Jim interrupted. "Don\'t humbug, Petrie. There was no love lost between Henry and me, as you know, though I\'ve tried to forget that."

When he had recovered from the first surprise of this meeting, and had more fully grasped the significance of Petrie\'s news, he inquired, "I suppose Henry left a statement at his death."

"Statement?" the lawyer inquired.

Jim further explained. "Something in the nature of a confession."

"Confession?"

"By Jove! he might have done that."

"His late lordship died very suddenly."

But Jim waited for no further details. "So he died without a word. He died leaving me a fugitive from justice. So they still think me—" Then quickly the real facts of the case began to straighten themselves in Jim\'s mind. If Henry had not spoken—had left no confession—how and why had Petrie sought him? Then he asked:

"Why have you come here?"

Petrie, who was constantly watching the effect of his every word on the man who more and more confused and interested him, slowly answered, "I am here because your cousin, Lady Kerhill—"

"Diana?" Jim softly breathed the name, but said no more.

Petrie continued: "Believes that if you will speak—if you will break the silence of years, you can return to England and assume your proper place at the head of your house, and in the world."

So it was to Diana he owed this. "Then there is one who still believes in me. God bless her!" All restraint fell from Jim as he sat himself beside the solicitor and said, simply, "I did it for her sake, Petrie." Then, as though unconscious of the other man\'s presence, he sat staring ahead of him.

His surmise had been right, Petrie thought. This man was not guilty. The case began to assume new interest and new complications. He must hear more. Jim roused himself. From an inside pocket of his shirt he drew a small bag which held a sheet of faded paper.

"You are familiar with the late Kerhill\'s writing. You are also familiar with his character and life. I have never allowed this paper to leave my body." As he spoke he handed the paper to Petrie. "But death has cancelled this agreement."

Petrie read the document. Jim sat motionless. As the sun dropped lower and lower towards the west, bolts of scarlet and purple seemed to be hurled from its blazing brilliance down on the cabin and ............