“I heard them cheering,” he said.  “Couldn’t find you at your homestead.  You should have sent the five hundred dollars.  They would have saved you this.”

The defective utterance would alone have attracted attention, and, with the man’s attitude, was very significant, but it was equally evident to most of those who watched him that he was also struggling with some infirmity.  Western hospitality has, however, no limit, and one of the younger men drew out a chair.

“Hadn’t you better sit down, and if you want anything to eat we’ll get it you,” he said.  “Then you can tell us what your errand is.”

The man made a gesture of negation, and pointed to Winston.

“I came to find a friend of mine.  They told me at his homestead that he was here,” he said.

There was an impressive silence, until Colonel Barrington glanced at Winston, who still stood quietly impassive at the foot of the table.

“You know our visitor?” he said.  “The Grange is large enough to give a stranger shelter.”

The man laughed.  “Of course he does; it’s my place he’s living in.”

Barrington turned again to Winston, and his face seemed to have grown a trifle stern.

“Who is this man?” he said.

Winston looked steadily in front of him, vacantly noticing the rows of faces turned towards him under the big lamps.  “If he had waited a few minutes longer, you would have known,” he said.  “He is Lance Courthorne.”

This time the murmurs implied incredulity, but the man who stood swaying a little with his hand on the chair, and a smile in his half-closed eyes, made an ironical inclination.

“It’s evident you don’t believe it or wish to.  Still, it’s true,” he said.

One of the men nearest him rose and quietly thrust him into the chair.

“Sit down in the meanwhile,” he said dryly.  “By and by, Colonel Barrington will talk to you.”

Barrington thanked him with a gesture, and glanced at the rest.  “One would have preferred to carry out this inquiry more privately,” he said, very slowly, but with hoarse distinctness.  “Still, you have already heard so much.”

Dane nodded.  “I fancy you are right, sir.  Because we have known and respected the man who has, at least, done a good deal for us, it would be better that we should hear the rest.”

Barrington made a little gesture of agreement, and once more fixed his eyes on Winston.  “Then will you tell us who you are?”

“A struggling prairie farmer,” said Winston quietly.  “The son of an English country doctor who died in penury, and one who from your point of view could never have been entitled to more than courteous toleration from any of you.”

He stopped, but, for the astonishment was passing, there was negation in the murmurs which followed, while somebody said, “Go on!”

Dane stood up.  “I fancy our comrade is mistaken,” he said.  “Whatever he may have been, we recognize our debt to him.  Still, I think he owes us a more complete explanation.”