page picture, and Elizabeth found herself looking down into the face of
Black Jack, proud, handsome, defiant.

Had Vance been there, he might have recognized her actions. As she had
done one day twenty-four years ago, now she turned and dropped heavily
into a chair, her bony hands pressed to her shallow bosom. A moment later
she was on her feet again, ready to fight, ready to tell a thousand lies.
But it was too late. The revelation had been complete and she could tell
by his face that Terence knew everything.

"Terry," she said faintly, "what on earth have you to do with that--"

"Listen, Aunt Elizabeth," he said, "you aren't going to fib about it, are
you?"

"What in the world are you talking about?"

"Why were you so shocked?"

She knew it was a futile battle. He was prying at her inner mind with
short questions and a hard, dry voice.

"It was the face of that terrible man. I saw him once before, you know.
On the day--"

"On the day he was murdered!"

That word told her everything. "Murdered!" It lighted all the mental
processes through which he had been going. Who in all the reaches of the
mountain desert had ever before dreamed of terming the killing of the