Such was Verner Lablache, the wealthiest man of the Foss River Settlement.  He owned a large store in the place, selling farming machinery to the settlers and ranchers about.  His business was always done on credit, for which he charged exorbitant rates of interest, accepting only first mortgages upon crops and stock as security.  Besides this he represented several of the Calford private banks, which many people said were really owned by him, and there was no one more ready to lend money—­on the best of security and the highest rate of interest—­than he.  Should the borrower fail to pay, he was always suavely ready to renew the loan at increased interest—­provided the security was sound.  And, in the end, every ounce of his pound of flesh, plus not less than fifty per cent. interest, would come back to him.  After Verner Lablache had done with him, the unfortunate rancher who borrowed generally disappeared from the neighborhood.  Sometimes this man’s victims were never heard of again.  Sometimes they were discovered doing the “chores” round some obscure farmer’s house.  Anyway, ranch, crops, stock—­everything the man ever had—­would have passed into the hands of the money-lender, Lablache.

Hard-headed dealer—­money-grubber—­as Lablache was, he had a weakness.  To look at him—­to know him—­no one would have thought it, but he had.  And at least two of those present were aware of his secret.  He was in love with Jacky.  That is to say, he coveted her—­desired her.  When Lablache desired anything in that little world of his, he generally secured it to himself, but, in this matter, he had hitherto been thwarted.  His desire had increased proportionately.  He was annoyed to think that Jacky had retired at his coming.  He was in no way blind to the reason of her sudden departure, but beyond his first remark he was not the man to advertise his chagrin.  He could afford to wait.

“You’ll take a bite o’ supper, Mr. Lablache?” said old Norton, in a tone of inquiry.

“Supper?—­no, thanks, Norton.  But if you’ve a drop of something hot I can do with that.”

“We’ve gener’ly got somethin’ o’ that about,” replied the old man.  “Whiskey or rum?”

“Whisky, man, whisky.  I’ve got liver enough already without touching rum.”  Then he turned to “Poker” John.

“It’s a devilish night, John, devilish.  I started before you.  Thought I could make the river in time.  I was completely lost on the other side of the creek.  I fancy the storm worked up from that direction.”

He lumped into a chair close beside the stove.  The others had already seated themselves.

“We didn’t chance it.  Bill drove us straight here,” said “Poker” John.

“Guess Bill knew something—­he generally does,” as an afterthought.

“I know a blizzard when I see it,” said Bunning-Ford, indifferently.

Lablache sipped his whisky.  A silence fell on that gathering of refugees.  Mrs. Norton had cleared the supper things.