their ears—a sound so faint and far that, had it not been for the wonderful clearness and stillness of the dry, crisp, dewless air, it could not have reached them.

"Hark! What is that?" said Desmond, holding his breath.

"We can see the road better from the upstairs windows—come!" she exclaimed, springing to her feet. She hastily closed the outer door into the court-yard, which still stood open, and ran upstairs, followed by Desmond. From the highest window of the house—a sort of landing or look-out at the top of the stairs—they had a view of the windings of the white road between wood and hillside.

The night had fallen like a dark mantle over the land; but the sky was clear; the moon had risen; and in the dusk they could just distinguish the pale, dim line of the road between the shadows of the trees—could even discern upon it, though some distance off as yet, what looked at first like a dark, blurred, swift moving spot, then resolved itself into a group of mounted men riding straight for the Saucel Ranch.

"There they are," said Oliver Desmond in a low voice; but he was suddenly and strangely calm now the danger was at his door. "They're coming here. There's a handy tree I see over yonder, just outside your gates," he added, with the frequent tendency of men who are used to carry their lives in their hands to "jest upon the axe which kills them." Barbara clasped and wrung her hands.

"Too late to fly!" she said. "Before we could get Sultan out of the stable and saddle him they'll be here! There's no time for escape. You must hide!"

"If they've got dogs, I'm a dead man," he rejoined, staring at the fast nearing horsemen; "and I shall be dangling from that tree before an hour has passed!"

Barbara flew to the nearest door and opened it, then the next, and the next, glancing in wild and eager haste into each room to see in which any hiding-place might be found—although she knew too well the simple arrangements of the ranch offered no facilities for concealment. No secret chambers, no sliding panels, no dark recesses nor trap-doors in this plain wooden "frame" house. The outhouses? No, they would probably be the first places searched; the natural idea of the pursuers would be that he might have sought refuge there unknown to the inmates of the house. There were no cellars, no possible safe hiding-places on the lower floor; on the upper floor there were but three rooms—Mr. and Mrs. Thorne's room, Barbara's room, and the "guest-room." All were plainly furnished with bare necessaries: no "old oak chests," no tapestries nor hanging draperies, no curtained recesses, no place to hide a good-sized dog, much less a full-grown man. Barbara's was the only one of the bedrooms that could boast of a cupboard—a long, narrow cupboard which she used as a wardrobe, and kept her dresses there hung on pegs. This was the only place.

There was not a moment to lose in talk. Barbara had hardly time to go downstairs, look round the kitchen, and assure herself that there were no traces of Desmond's presence to be detected there, when the trampling of horses sounded close at hand. She heard some of the party ride to the front, some to the back, and she knew they were surrounding the house, before there was a sharp, imperative knock on the front door. Barbara opened it. She stood there—a candle she had just lighted in her hand—a graceful, composed figure, with a placid, inquiring look.

The men who were gathered on the threshold looked somewhat taken aback by the appearance of a lady then and there.

"Excuse our intrusion, madam," said the foremost; "but we have called to inquire if there is anyone in this house but the members of your own family?"

"No one," she replied; and the feeble flicker of the candle showed the look of innocent, yet naturally somewhat anxious and surprised, inquiry on her serene, fair face.

"Has any stranger been here?"

"No."

"Miss Thorne," said another of the group—in whom she recognised a prominent citizen of Eden, with whom she had, however, but a very slight acquaintance, and who now came forward, doffing his hat with a deferential bow—"perhaps we had better speak to your brother."

"My brother is out. I represent the family at present, and can answer any question you may wish to ask. I presume, gentlemen, you come on business?"

"On business, lady, with which we would not trouble you, if it were not that we must ascertain whether the person of whom we are in search is here. We have ordered a search of the outhouses, where a tramp might take shelter. Meanwhile, with your permission, we will look over the house. A man might enter by one of the upper windows without your suspecting it."

"Indeed, I trust not," said Barbara.

"We have reason to believe that the man we want came this way, and he would be likely to try to gain entrance and get refuge here."

"I hope he will not. But you are most welcome to look round."

Barbara, gracious and self-possessed, accompanied them, in hostess-wise, from room to room on the ground floor. The kitchen looked cheerful with the lighted lamp and stove, the kettle singing merrily on the fire; one cup, saucer, and plate were set out upon the table, with a cake. Evidently Miss Thorne had been busy preparing her modest tea when their arrival interrupted her. The whole party were crossing the hall to the parlour when they heard the clatter of galloping horses' hoofs, and two horsemen dashed into the court-yard, hastily dismounted, and entered the house. And one of these was no other than Colonel Jeff! He and his companion were evidently expected by the "Vigilance" party, who received them quietly, as a matter of course, and indeed an awaited addition to their ranks, one of the men from Eden City observing as he nodded a greeting, "Guessed you wouldn't keep us waiting long."

The Colonel looked at Barbara; she paled a little as she met his gaze, albeit there was no shadow of suspicion in it, only a tender and respectful solicitude lest she should be alarmed or agitated by this invasion. But she compelled herself to return his look calmly and gently, and he was reassured by her tranquillity.

"Any traces?" he demanded, turning to the one who was apparently the leader of the committee.

"'ALLOW ME,' SAID COLONEL JEFF."

"Not yet. We're going through the house."

"Upstairs?" added Colonel Jeff, inquiringly, briefly glancing at Barbara, and indicating the staircase at the end of the long hall.

"Are merely three sleeping-rooms," she replied—"my brother's, my own, and our guest-room."

"I perceive that anyone might gain access to your upper rooms by the roof of the lean-to or by the balcony," observed the leader. "By your leave, madam, we will go up and look round. It will be to your advantage also to be assured that there is no one lurking about."

Barbara's heart sank, but she saw it would be fatal to offer any objection. "Certainly," she said, and led the way towards the staircase. The gentleman from Eden City, to whom all the Thornes were known, although not intimately, here put in a suggestion that perhaps it would be more agreeable to the lady's feelings if they were to depute one, or say two gentlemen, to accompany her upstairs. The suggestion was accepted; two searchers were by unanimous vote regarded as sufficient; and Colonel Jeff and his friend were deputed to go up with Miss Thorne and examine the bedrooms.

Barbara was cold and sick with terror, but she kept her self-possession, and tried to cling to one frail straw of hope—that they might by some providential chance overlook the door of the cupboard (which was papered like the