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ness. He became suddenly aware that he was the possessor of a dangerous secret. The thought troubled him. For hours he tossed in nervous restlessness. It was not until the small hours of morning that he was able to fall asleep.

Standing on the street next day, Poe was speculating idly on the enigma of the Kid's disappearance. Garrett, it seemed, was right. The Kid by this time was doubtless safe across the border in Mexico. Well, at least he would not come back to harry Canadian River herds, and Poe's employers were as well off as though the Kid had been hanged. A trampish man slouched by. Poe rested a casual eye upon him. He had no idea who the fellow was. From the looks of him, he didn't care to know. Bur to Poe's surprise, the seedy stranger flashed him a look of recognition and, with an almost imperceptible motion of the head, tipped him a signal to follow. Here was a mystery which at first glance did not seem intriguing. But Poe followed—first to the edge of the town and then on a little way into the country. At a point in the road screened from observation by piñon trees, the vagabond turned and faced him.

"Do you remember me?" he asked.

Poe, after a moment's scrutiny, shook his head.

"George Graham."

"Oh, yes," answered Poe. "Back in Tascosa. Of course. How are you, George:"

"Down and out. That's how I am. Which it's no use to tell you. You can see it."

"What's the matter?"

"This is what drink has done to a man who was once a fairly prosperous citizen. But I didn't bring you out here to tell you my troubles. You were my friend in