“Grannis,” he requested, “come here a moment, please.”

In silence Blair closed the door behind them, motioned his companion to a seat, and took another opposite him.  He was very quiet, even for his taciturn self; and, glancing at a heap of papers on a nearby table, Grannis understood.  For a long minute the two men eyed each other silently.  Not without result had they lived the events of the last months together.  It was the younger man who first spoke.

“Grannis,” he said impassively, “I’m going to ask you a question, and I want an honest answer.  Whatever you may think it leads to must cut no figure.  Will you give it?”

Equally impassively the elder man nodded, “Yes.”

Blair selected a paper from the litter, and looked at it steadily.  “What I want to know is this:  have I, has anyone, no matter what the incentive may be, the right to make known after another’s death things which during that person’s life were carefully concealed?”

The steady gaze shifted to his companion, held there compellingly.  “In other words, is a tragedy any less a tragedy, any more public property, because the actors are dead?  Answer me honest, Grannis.”

Impassively as before the overseer shook his head.  “No, I think not,” he said.  “Let the dead past bury its dead.”

A moment longer the other remained motionless, then, before his companion realized what he was doing, Ben had opened the door of the sheet-iron heater and tossed the paper in his fingers fair among the glowing coals.

“Thank you, Grannis,” he said, “I agree with you.”  He stood a second looking into the suddenly kindled blaze.  “As you say, to the living, life.  Let the dead past bury its dead.”

The flame died down until upon the coals lay a thin, curling film of carbon.  Grannis shifted in his seat.

“Nevertheless,” he commented indifferently, “you’ve done a foolish act.”  A pause; then he went on deliberately as before.  “You’ve destroyed the only evidence that proves you Rankin’s son.”

Involuntarily Blair stiffened, seeming about to speak.  But he did not.  Instead, he closed the stove and resumed his former seat.

“By the way,” he digressed, “I just received a letter from Scotty Baker.  I wrote him some time ago about—­Mr. Rankin.  He answered from England.”

Grannis made no comment, and, the conversation being obviously at an end, after a bit he rose, and with a taciturn “Good-night,” left the room.

* * * * *

Days and weeks passed.  The dead rigor of Winter gave way to traces of Spring.  On the high places the earth began to turn brown, the buffalo grass to peep into view.  By day the water slushed under the feet of the cattle, and ran merrily in the draws of the rolling country.  By night it froze into marvellous frost-work; daintier and more intricate of pattern than any made by man.  Overhead, flocks