riding-breeches and nodded his head. "Well," he exclaimed, "you've
made a damned pretty mess of it, haven't you?"

Cahill had sunk heavily into a chair and was staring at Ranson with
the stupid, wondering gaze of a dumb animal in pain. During the
moments in which the two men eyed each other Ranson's smile
disappeared. Cahill raised himself slowly as though with a great
effort.

"I done it," said Cahill, "for her. I done it to make her happy."

"That's all right," said Ranson, briskly. "She's going to be happy.
We're all going to be happy."

"An' all I did," Cahill continued, as though unconscious of the
interruption, "was to disgrace her." He rose suddenly to his feet.
His mental sufferings were so keen that his huge body trembled. He
recognized how truly he had made "a mess of it." He saw that all he
had hoped to do for his daughter by crime would have been done for
her by this marriage with Ranson, which would have made her a "lady,"
made her rich, made her happy. Had it not been for his midnight raids
she would have been honored, loved, and envied, even by the wife of
the colonel herself. But through him disgrace had come upon her,
sorrow and trouble. She would not be known as the daughter of Senator
Ranson, but of Cahill, an ex-member of the Whyo gang, a highway
robber, as the daughter of a thief who was serving his time in State
prison. At the thought Cahill stepped backward unsteadily as though
he had been struck. He cried suddenly aloud. Then his hand whipped
back to his revolver, but before he could use it Ranson had seized
his wrist with both hands. The two struggled silently and fiercely.