He writhed with impatience. If he had not been a fool, he would have
taken that place himself, and then he could have seen to it that the
sheriff, with dexterous guiding, should approach the fatal story. As it
was, how could he tell that Elizabeth might not undo all his plans and
cleverly keep the sheriff away from his favorite topic for an untold
length of time? But as he told his sister, he wished to place all the
seeming responsibility on her own shoulders. Perhaps he had played too
safe.

The first ray of hope came to him as coffee was brought in. The
prodigious eating of the cattlemen and miners at the table had brought
them to a stupor. They no longer talked, but puffed with unfamiliar
awkwardness at the fine Havanas which Vance had provided. Even the women
talked less, having worn off the edge of the novelty of actually dining
at the table of Elizabeth Cornish. And since the hostess was occupied
solely with the little group nearest her, and there was no guiding mind
to pick up the threads of talk in each group and maintain it, this duty
fell more and more into the hands of Vance. He took up his task with
pleasure.

Farther and farther down the table extended the sphere of his mild
influence. He asked Mr. Wainwright to tell the story of how he treed the
bear so that the tenderfoot author could come and shoot it. Mr.
Wainwright responded with gusto. The story was a success. He varied it by
requesting young Dobel to describe the snowslide which had wiped out the
Vorheimer shack the winter before.

Young Dobel did well enough to make the men grunt at the end, and he
brought several little squeals of horror from the ladies.