Charlie shrugged his shoulders.
"That's sure what I am, Sergeant," he answered with an awkward attempt at a smile, "a destitute tramp."
"Eh?" exclaimed Silk. He evidently did not believe him. "D'you mind explaining? I don't understand—unless you mean that you've had a disagreement with old man Crisp?"
"You've hit the mark, first shot," said Charlie. "But it's something more than a mere disagreement. I've quitted the ranch. I'm not going back—ever."
"That's bad," reflected Sergeant Silk, taking out his pipe to indicate that he had leisure enough to listen to the explanation that he had invited. "Real bad, it is. You were such friends, he and you. He was shaping to take you into partnership, and—well, there's that pretty daughter of his. I've heard you were likely to marry her. Surely you haven't broken off with Dora, as well as her father?"
"I'm afraid so," Charlie gloomily answered. "I couldn't expect her to marry a man whom her father has accused of committing a crime."
"A crime?" Sergeant Silk looked at him in perplexity. "A crime?" he repeated. "That's the way of the wind, is it? Tell me about it."
Charlie Fortescue nibbled nervously at an end of his moustache.
"The worst of it is," he presently began to explain, "I haven't been able to prove my innocence. Appearances are against me."
He raised his dark eyes appealingly to the red-coated soldier policeman, and his face brightened as with a new hope. Percy Rapson was conscious that it was the face of a man of good class. It was almost aristocratic in its refinement of feature. And the tone of his voice was that of an educated Englishman as he added—