percolated through my brain, and I wandered forth to a bench on the courthouse square and sank to rest.
The check had been cashed the same morning I left San Francisco, and it had been cashed by Martha J. Balliol—no other than M. J. B.! No wonder she had seemed to know my name, when she must have borne in her pocketbook that check of mine! Balliol had given it to her the previous night, just before his suicide; so much was evident.
But—she had been Balliol’s sister, then! Why had she not admitted her identity? Perhaps she would have done so, I argued, but for the news of her brother’s death. After that, to find herself traveling in her brother’s car, with the man who had bought that car and the ranch to boot, must have disconcerted her immensely at first. And after telling me that she was a friend of Balliol, she probably had lacked the nerve to confess her white lie and give her real name. Perhaps she had merely considered it unnecessary.
I felt relieved. Folly though it undoubtedly was, I had indulged a secret conviction that M. J. B. was Balliol’s sweetheart; now she proved to be his sister, but although this fact afforded great relief, it none the less gave me new anxiety. I have always noticed that girls, especially very charming and attractive girls like Martha Balliol, are all too seldom free and heart-whole. Somebody else always seems to get acquainted with them first. That was one reason that I was still a bachelor!
But never had I met anyone like Martha Balliol. The more I thought about her, the more I felt like a fool for having left her in San Francisco as I had done. At last, realizing that I had bungled everything very sadly, and that it was now close to noon and I was hungry, I got up and sauntered toward the bank seeking information. On the way, however, I passed a hardware store, and bethought me of the pterodactyl. There was an attractive display of guns in the window, so I entered and besought the proprietor to sell me a shotgun.
“Want a license, I s’pose?” he inquired amiably. “I’m the game warden here, y’know. I dunno why you’re goin’ after deer with a shotgun—”
“I’m not,” I rejoined. “I’m going after pterodactyls, and there’s no closed season on them!”
He rubbed his chin, and with a mystified air agreed with me. “Well, I reckon not. Say, you the man just bought the Balliol ranch?”
“Yes. Desmond is my name.”
“Stark’s mine. Glad to meet ye. Seen any ghosts around there yet?”
“Ghosts?” I met his eye, and he chuckled. “What do you mean?”
“Well, that place is built right close to where the old Injun chiefs is buried, and I hear tell they’s ghosts around there at times.”
“Nothing doing,” I rejoined cheerfully. “Not so far, anyhow. Where’s the best place to get a meal in town?”
“Well, ye might go several places, but if I was you, I’d go up to Mrs. Sinjon’s, back o’ the courthouse.”
He directed me, and leaving the shotgun until after luncheon, I went to the boardinghouse back of the town square.
Ghosts, eh? That was a new angle. Had the natives played unpleasant jokes upon John Balliol, because of his skull decorations? No; the very notion was silly. Grave, stolid farmer folks like Dawson were not given to such trivial foolishness. Besides, Balliol’s affrighted nerves must have come from months and years of fear, not days or weeks. And jokes do not extend over months and years.
I found the boardinghouse simple and thoroughly delightful, the cooking wholesome, the company very mixed, ranging from a stage driver to an itinerant preacher. It was a warm noon, and conversation flagged. I was just finishing my meal, when, in the intermittent and broken-off speech of farming men, two workmen at the other end of the table spoke.
“Heard young Balliol’s sister come in this mornin’,” said one.
“Uhuh,” said the other, and looked toward the stage driver. “Good looker, Mac?”
The stage driver glanced up. “Got him beat all hollow,” he observed. “Come in on the morning train. Going up the lake, I reckon.”
I paid for my meal and departed, feeling a bit dizzy. Balliol’s sister! What the deuce was she doing here?
Calling for my gun at the hardware store, I arranged about mail at the post-office, then went down to the dock. And out on the dock, all alone, she was standing!
CHAPTER VII
I Make Discoveries
To see me sauntering along with a gun under my arm, seemed to cause her some alarm. And, too, she seemed very self-repressive; her greeting was cold. Then, with a quick change of mood, she smiled.
“Are you going hunting like everyone else, Mr. Desmond?”
“I am, Miss Balliol,” I responded.
An adorable flush stole into her cheeks, but her blue eyes did not falter.
“I must apologize for that,” she said simply. “It was abominable! But at first, I—I said that I was a friend—”
“And you turned out to be a sister,” I cut in. “Please, Miss Balliol, don’t explain; I figured it out for myself later on, and I understand perfectly. But, if it is not an impertinence, may I ask what on earth you’re doing here? This is an outlandish place in which to meet anyone—particularly a person of whom one has thought so much and often.”
Her gaze dwelt upon me thoughtfully, searchingly, even suspiciously.
“To be candid, Mr. Desmond, I hadn’t the least intention of confiding in you,” she stated coolly. “But I can’t help believing that you are honest—”
“Oh! Who said that I wasn’t?”
“You implied as much—by buying my brother’s property here.”
“Thanks,” I murmured, feeling pretty well dazed.
“I am going to Dawson’s farm for a short visit,” she went on. “If you care to see me there, I’ll be very glad to explain matters fully. I think the up-lake launch is about due.”
I did not know anything about the up-lake launch, but I took chances.
“No,” I said positively. “She ran on a mud bar this morning and is stuck with a broken propeller. If you want to get to Dawson’s, will you let me take you in my launch? There’s not another to be hired, I assure you. Besides, it will let us talk on the way.”
I have a suspicion that she knew that I was lying; but if so, she did not mind. At all events, she accepted my invitation. As she had only her suitcase, we were chugging away from Lakeport inside of ten minutes. She added to the mystery by stating that Dawson’s took boarders, and that, while she was totally unknown here, she had determined to pay a visit to the lake on business. I began to feel somewhat uncomfortable.
“There are several things to straighten out, Miss Balliol,” I observed. “First, your remarks about my honesty. Then, if you remember, when I told you about your brother, you exclaimed that ‘they’ had killed him—”
She whitened a little.
“Please!”
