a pleasant ride. It had been a beautiful morning.

"But have you nothing whatever to tell us?" they asked; for, indeed,
they had a right to expect something.

Gregory said nothing. This was not usual, for at other times when he had
nothing to tell, it did not cost him much to invent something
interesting.

"You are very dull this morning, Sheriff," said the youngest daughter of
the house, who, being the baby and pretty, had grown pettishly
privileged in speech.

But deep within him Gregory was saying, "What a blessing that I forgot
to pay the ferry!"

When he got outside he said to his host, "Is there such a place
hereabouts as the Rhonefoot?"

"Why, yes, there is," said Laird Cunningham of Barr. "But why do you
ask? I thought a Sheriff would know everything without asking--even an
ornamental one on his way to the Premiership."

"Oh, I heard the name," said Gregory. "It struck me as a curious one."

So that evening there came over the river from the Waterfoot of the
Rhone the sound of a voice calling. Grace Allen sat thoughtfully looking
out of the rose-hung window of the boathouse. Her face was an oval of
perfect curve, crowned with a mass of light brown hair, in which were
red lights when the sun shone directly upon it. Her skin was clear, pale