CHAPTER I

THE POLO CLUB BALL


It was a brilliant gathering--brilliant in every sense of the word. The
hall was a great effort of the decorator's art; the people were
faultlessly dressed; the faces were strong, handsome--fair or dark
complexioned as the case might be; those present represented the wealth
and fashion of the Western Canadian ranching world. Intellectually, too,
there was no more fault to find here than is usual in a ballroom in the
West End of London.

It was the annual ball of the Polo Club, and that was a social function
of the first water--in the eyes of the Calford world.

"My dear Mrs. Abbot, it is a matter which is quite out of my province,"
said John Allandale, in answer to a remark from his companion. He was
leaning over the cushioned back of the Chesterfield upon which an old
lady was seated, and gazing smilingly over at a group of young people
standing at the opposite end of the room. "Jacky is one of those young
ladies whose strength of character carries her beyond the control of
mere man. Yes, I know what you would say," as Mrs. Abbot glanced up into
his face with a look of mildly-expressed wonder; "it is true I am her
uncle and guardian, but, nevertheless, I should no more dream of
interfering with her--what shall we say?--love affairs, than suggest
her incapacity to 'boss' a 'round up' worked by a crowd of Mexican
greasers."

"Then all I can say is that your niece is a very unfortunate girl,"