"I ought to know, seeing as I gave it to her for a Christmas present.
Sent to Denver for that knife, I did. Best lady's knife in the market,
I'm told. Made in Sheffield, England."

"Ye-es. It's sure a good knife. I'll ce'tainly return it next time I see
her."

"Funny she ever let you get away with it. She's some particular who she
lends that knife to," Jim said proudly.

Keller wiped the blade carefully, shut it, and put the knife back in his
pocket. Nevertheless, he was worried in his mind. For what Yeager had
told him changed wholly the problem before him. It suggested a
possibility, even a probability, very distasteful to him. He was in
trouble himself, and before he was through he expected to get others
into deep water, too. But not Phyllis Sanderson--surely not this
impulsive girl with the blue-black hair and dark, scornful eyes.
Wherefore he decided to keep silent now and let Yeager do what he would.

"I reckon, seh, you'll have to do your own guessing at the facts," he
said gently.

"Just as you say, Mr. Keller. I reckon if you had anything to say for
yourself you would say it. Now, I'll do what talking I've got to do. You
may stay here twenty-four hours. After that you may hit the trail for
Bear Creek. I'm going down to Seven Mile to tell what I know."

"That's all right. I'll go along and return the pocketknife."