It was true. The little group of loungers before the building had
suddenly disappeared. There was the flash of a red shirt vanishing in an
adjacent doorway; the fading apparition of a pair of high boots and blue
overalls in another; the abrupt withdrawal of a curly blond head from a
sashless window over the way. Even the saloon was deserted, although
a back door in the dim recess seemed to creak mysteriously. The
stage-coach, with the other passengers, had already rattled away.

"I certainly think Fairfax understood that I--" began Mr. Carr.

He was interrupted by the pressure of Christie's fingers on his arm and
a subdued exclamation from Jessie, who was staring down the street.

"What are they?" she whispered in her sister's ear. "Nigger minstrels, a
circus, or what?"

The five millionaires of Devil's Ford had just turned the corner of the
straggling street, and were approaching in single file. One glance was
sufficient to show that they had already availed themselves of the new
clothing bought by Fairfax, had washed, and one or two had shaved. But
the result was startling.

Through some fortunate coincidence in size, Dick Mattingly was the only
one who had achieved an entire new suit. But it was of funereal black
cloth, and although relieved at one extremity by a pair of high riding
boots, in which his too short trousers were tucked, and at the other
by a tall white hat, and cravat of aggressive yellow, the effect was
depressing. In agreeable contrast, his brother, Maryland Joe, was
attired in a thin fawn-colored summer overcoat, lightly worn open, so as