Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Description: Two novelettes and three longish short stories: 1: Bob Bowen Comes to Town (novelette) 2: The Blood of Kings 3: On the Very Threshold 4: Mormon Valley (Novelette) 5: The House of Skulls

THE BLOOD OF KINGS
and other stories

H Bedford-Jones

2020

Contents

1: Bob Bowen Comes to Town (novelette)

2: The Blood of Kings

3: On the Very Threshold

4: Mormon Valley (Novelette)

5: The House of Skulls

____________________________

1: Bob Bowen Comes to Town

All-Story Weekly, Nov 2, 1918

1: Mining Stock

THE fat man squeezed himself into the chair of the smoking-room, eyed the lean man and the drummer who had stretched out on the cushioned seat, wiped his beaded brow, and sighed.

"This central California," he observed squeakily, "is the hottest place this side of Topheth! Thank Heaven, we get into Frisco to-night."

The drummer from San Francisco resented the diminutive and gave him a casual stare. The lean man said nothing. Then the drummer turned to the lean man and picked up a thread of conversation which had apparently been broken by the fat man's entrance.

"This here ruby silver, now," he argued. "I've heard it ain't up to snuff. Ain't nothin' in working it, they tell me."

The lean man smiled. When he smiled, his jaw looked a little leaner and stronger, and he was quite a likeable chap.

"You can hear 'most anything, especially about ores," he remarked, between pulls at his cigar. "But Tonopah was founded on ruby silver, and the Tonopah mines are not exactly poor properties to own." His eyes twinkled, as if at some secret jest.

"But they tell me," persisted the drummer, "that ruby silver's got too much arsenic in it to make development and smelting pay. Besides it comes in small veins—"

"It has not too much arsenic to make smelting pay— sometimes! It does not come in small veins— sometimes! Look at the Yellow Jack, the richest mine over at Tonopah! They busted into ruby silver; last week a bunch of mining sharks come and look over the outcrop. They wire east, and their principals pay a cool million and a half cash for the property. That's what ruby silver did for the Yellow Jack!"

"How d'you know so much about, it?" demanded the drummer. "You been up that way yourself, eh?"

"I'm the man who sold out the Yellow Jack." The lean man smiled again as he threw back his elbows into the cushions and puffed his cigar.

"Gee!" The drummer stared sidewise at his informant. Very manifestly, that mention of a million and a half was running in his mind. His eyes began to bulge under the force of impact. " Gee! Say, are you stringin' me?"

Carelessly, the lean man reached into his vest pocket and extended a pasteboard.

"Here's my card." The twinkle in his gray eyes deepened a bit. "Bob Bowen— I guess 'most everybody around Tonopah knows me. I'm going to Frisco to sell a couple more mines."

This time, the drummer took no umbrage at the hated word "Frisco." Instead, he put out his hand with quick affability.

"Glad to meet you, Mr. Bowen! Here's my card. Going to the Palace?"

Before the lean man could respond, the fat man leaned forward in his chair. He stared intently at Bowen, then spoke.

"Do I understand, sir," he squeaked, "that you are Robert Bowen, and that you have sold the Yellow Jack mine?"

"You do," said Bowen, eying him.

"Upon my word!" The ejaculation was one of surprise and was followed by a chuckle. "My name is Dickover— of New York, Mr. Bowen. If I'm not mistaken, it was my agent who bought that mine of yours! Am I right?"

Bowen's gray eyes hardened for a moment, and then they twinkled again and his lean hand shot forth.

"Well, well!" he exclaimed heartily. "Talk about unadulterated coincidence! And you're actually Dickover; the Dickover? You're the man who owns half the copper mines in Arizona and two-thirds of Tonopah?"

"Uh-uh. Glad to meet you, Bowen. Going to Frisco, are you?"

The drummer looked from one to the other, agape. And small wonder! The name of Dickover was known wherever ores were smelted or mining stocks sold.

Bowen and Dickover gazed at each other, appraisingly. After a moment they began to discuss mining stocks. The drummer listened attentively, and after venturing one timid assertion which was promptly quashed by Dickover, ventured no more. At length the train slowed down, and he sprang to his feet.

"Gee, I'd plumb forgotten that I had to make a stop!" he said regretfully, and held out his hand. "Mighty glad to've met you, Mr. Bowen. And you, Mr. Dickover. Mighty glad! May see you at the Palace in three-four days. Look me up, won't you? So-long."

So, breezily, he swung out of the smoking-room and from the train. Bowen carelessly watched him depart, then sat up with quickening interest.

"Gone into the telegraph office—"

The great magnate broke in with a falsetto chuckle.

"Sure! You can gamble that he knows one or two newspaper men in Frisco. He's tipping 'em off that we're on the Limited. Get our names in the paper."

Bowen looked a trifle startled. "Oh, hell!" he uttered disgustedly.

The two smoked in silence, no one else entering their compartment. Slowly the train pulled out and with gathering speed slipped westward. The fat man leaned forward again, his eyes on Bowen. Mirth shook his ponderous frame.

"Say!" he uttered. "I happen to know about that Yellow Jack mine. It was sold to Dickover of New York, all right; but it was sold by a big Swede named Olafson. No offense, pardner— but you're some liar! What made you string that poor boob?"

Bowen laughed unassumedly, and the fat man laughed in sympathy with him.

"He asked too many questions— too curious. Anyway, I told him the exact truth!"

"Come on, come on!" squealed the fat man scornfully. "I'm no chicken. You can't put it over me, young man!"

"I'm not trying to," said Bowen coolly, his eyes twinkling. " It's a matter of record that I sold the Yellow Jack mine. Only, as it happens, I sold it to Olafson two years ago, before we dreamed there was any ruby ore in that locality! And I sold it for five hundred dollars. Now who's the boob? Me, Bob Bowen! Don't hold back, stranger; when old Olafson sold out for a million and a half, I quit Tonopah for good."

The fat man chuckled. The chuckle deepened into a billowing laugh that shook his broad frame, and the laugh became a roar of mirth. Bowen grinned wryly.

"Laugh your fool head off— I deserve it! " he went on. "Still, I'll hand it to you at that. You with your talk of Dickover! That's what made our late friend really sit up and rubber. Did you notice what reverent attention he paid to your fool dissertation on curb stocks? I'll bet a nickel he'll invest twenty dollars or so in Big Daisy or Apex Crown on the strength of your remarks."

The fat man choked over his cigar, and flung it away.

"Didn't you think much of my spiel?" he demanded. "Why, I thought I knew a little—"

"Huh!" grunted Bowen, yet no whit unpleasantly. "Stranger, if you really want to learn a little about curb stocks, you go and float around the mining country a bit. If I took your pointers on stocks, I'd be in a poorhouse next month!"

"Then you're a broker?"

"No. Not by a long sight!" snapped Bowen. "I play a straight game."

"No offense," The fat man chuckled again. "You're really going to sell a couple of mines in Frisco? Or was that bunk, too?"

''No, that was straight enough; not the selling part, maybe, but the trying." Bowen sighed a little, and older lines showed in his lean face. "I've got two properties close in to the Yellow Jack."

"Why didn't you try selling them to Dickover's agent?"

"Him!" Bowen grunted in disgust. "Stranger, that guy Henderson, just between you and me, is crooked as hell! Know what he did? Made Olafson give him fifty thousand dollars before he'd approve the sale! I sure do feel sorry for old man Dickover; some day that confidential agent, Henderson, is going to get into him good and deep, believe me! "

The fat man carefully extracted two fat, gold-banded, amazing cigars from a case, and extended one to Bowen.

"Smoke. You seem to be sore on that agent."

"Not me, stranger. You can ask anybody on the ground."

"H-m! Going to the Palace, I suppose? Best way to sell mines is to put up at the best place and make a splurge. But you know that, I guess."

"I didn't; but maybe I'll take your advice. It listens good. No, don't get the notion that I'm sore on the Dickover crowd. My ground isn't the sort they're after. It's low-grade ore and heaps of it. I'll get after the low-graders in Frisco, see?"

The fat man nodded knowingly. "What are your properties?"

"The Sunburst and the Golden Lode."

For a space the two men smoked in silence. Bowen enjoyed his cigar; it had been long months since he had smoked a cigar whose aroma even approached this. Evidently the fat man was no pauper.

The word struck bitterness into Bowen. Pauper! He himself had just thirty dollars to his name. He would look fine, going to the Palace! Yet, why not? He could get by with it and let the bill run, on his appearance; if he sold his two mines, or either of them, everything would be fine.

And if not — well, something would turn up.

"Yep," he said abruptly, ending his thoughts in speech before he could check the impulse, "I guess that was good advice. I'll go to the Palace."

The fat man eyed him shrewdly, but Bowen was again lost in frowning thought.

At eight that evening the Limited was "in." Bowen took a taxi up to the Palace. When he stepped up to the register of the big Market Street hostelry, he found his way blocked by the bulky figure of the fat man, who had just finished signing. The fat man turned from the desk, saw Bowen, and took him by the arm.

"Say!" he exclaimed. "Just a minute, Bowen. I want to thank you, old man, for that tip about my agent. I'll sure bear it in mind. You're all right!"

Slapping Bowen on the shoulder, he departed after an obsequious bellhop. For a moment Bob Bowen did not understand that speech; but as he leaned over the register and saw the signature of the fat man, he gulped in sudden, stark amazement.

Great glory! The fat man was Dickover, after all!

2: Called in for Consultation

THAT evident recognition, that low murmur of confidential speech, that friendly slap on the shoulder, turned the trick. This Robert Bowen of Tonopah was manifestly known to the great Dickover; was palpably a friend of the great Dickover; was clearly and openly a confidant of the great Dickover!

Realizing this, Bowen grinned to himself as the desk clerk doffed all haughtiness and became cordially human. He realized it with greater emphasis as he turned from the desk and found a brisk young man at his elbow with extended card.

"Mr. Bowen? I'm Harkness of the Chronicle. May I have two minutes of your time?"

Bowen affected to eye the young man in consideration.

Publicity! Well, why not? It might affect untold wonders for him. He was arriving in San Francisco unknown and unknowing. He had ore samples and assayers' reports galore in his grip; but these might do him no good unless he got the impetus he needed. And publicity would give it to him. At least, publicity could not hurt him!

"Sure," he said, nodding toward the parlors. "Come along and sit down."

A moment later the two men pulled chairs together and relaxed comfortably.

"Shoot," commanded Bowen laconically. The reporter grinned.

"I got a tip that you sold the Yellow Jack mine to Dickover for a million and—"

"Pause right there, Harkness!" Bowen lifted his hand, but smiled in his whimsical, likable fashion. "You've got it wrong. Dickover has just bought the Yellow Jack, but not from me. Don't start me off with a false report like that, for the love of Mike!"

"Whew! Good thing you put me wise," said Harkness frankly. "Well, do you mind telling me what mine you did sell to Dickover?"

Bowen gazed at him again, heavy-lidded. Was this rank deception? He decided that it was not. There was nothing crooked about it. Besides, Dickover had certainly known just how his words and manner to Bowen would be seen and recognized; Dickover had tried to do him a good turn. He was justified in taking advantage of the situation.

"Frankly, Harkness," said Bowen slowly, "I don't want to name any names. I'm here to try and dispose of same low-grade properties; rich in ore, but not in rich ore. Maybe you know that the Dickover people touch nothing but pretty rich propositions in the silver field."

"Sure, I understand." Harkness nodded assent. " But I heard a rumor that Dickover was here for the purpose of opening up a low-grade system; somebody had invented a means of smelting—"

"Nothing to it," asserted Bowen. "At least, I was talking about it with Dickover on the train, and he didn't say—"

He checked himself abruptly. He had no business talking like this. Harkness, however, came to his feet as if unwilling to detain the magnate further.

"Much obliged for your time, Mr. Bowen; mighty good of you, I'm sure! No special news from Tonopah way? Nothing on the inside that you'd pass along—"

"Oh, sure!" Bowen grinned. "The Yellow Jack was sold to Dickover by a Swede named Olafson. I sold the mine to Olafson two years ago— for five hundred beans! "

Harkness whistled. "Say— but you wouldn't let me use that, of course."

"Go ahead. I should worry!" Bowen chuckled. "The joke is on me, and everybody up at Tonopah knows it. Only don't make me out a fool, Harkness; two years ago there was no ruby vein known in that property."

"Trust me! Thanks, a thousand times."

Bowen went to his room, and sighed at the luxury of it. After that talk with the mining reporter, he had almost believed in his own assured wealth.

When he sought the "hotel personals" in the next morning's Chronicle, he smiled!

With Mr. Dickover, on the Overland, arrived Mr. Robert Bowen, of Tonopah, who, it is rumored, has recently disposed of large holdings in the Dickover interests. Mr. Bowen is heavily interested in low-grade silver properties near Tonopah.

And upon the mining page were separate stories; one concerning the Yellow Jack, the other, by the authority of Dickover himself, flatly contradicting the rumor that the Dickover interests had anything to do with low-grade silver ores.

"If nobody calls my little bluff, all right!" thought Bowen. "Now for work."

Having a list of every one who might put capital into his holdings, Bowen engaged a car by the day and set forth.

At four that afternoon, with ten dollars left in his pocket and no hope left in his soul, Bob Bowen of Tonopah re-entered his room at the hotel and threw down his grip.

He had covered everybody, even to those in whom he had looked for no interest. And always the same story: courtesy, a good reception, growing caution, flat refusal. It seemed that nobody in San Francisco would put a cent into low-grade silver. The Arizona crash had scared every investor away from mines for the next six months.

Bowen swore savagely to himself. Then, at the jingle of the telephone bell, he stumbled across the room to the instrument.

"Mr. Bowen? A party has called you three times since this morning. Left the number: Mission 34852. Do you wish to call them?"

"If you please."

Bowen hung up. Sudden hope was reborn within him for a brief moment. Who was so infernally anxious to see him? Who but some one to whom he had talked that morning— some one who wanted him to return— some one who now wanted to invest!

The telephone jingled again.

"Mr. Bowen?" To his intense disappointment, a feminine voice impinged upon his ear. Then his feeling changed. It was a nice voice and he liked it. It held a softly appealing note. He imagined that it held a trace of tears.

"Mr. Bowen, I'm a stranger to you; my name is Alice Ferguson. I used to be a stenographer for your friend Judge Lyman in Tonopah. In this morning's paper I saw that you were here, and I wondered if I might see you for five minutes on a matter of business. It— it is about some stock in Apex Crown, and it means everything to me; and if I could possibly impose on you to the extent of asking your advice—"

"My dear Miss Ferguson," exclaimed Bowen, warmth in his voice, "I remember you very well indeed, although I never met you formally. Sure, I'll be only too glad to do anything in my power. Where are you now?"

"In my office at the Crothers Building. I'll come over—"

"Not a bit of it! I'll be there in five minutes. Good-by!"

Bob Bowen remembered Judge Lyman's stenographer as a girl not particularly striking, but looking very feminine, capable, and as level-headed as a girl could be. He seized his hat and sought the quickest way to the Crothers Building.

As he strode along, his mind was busy— very busy. Apex Crown! That was a small producing mine over in the Tonopah district; like his own futures. Apex Crown was low-grade ore and barely paid expenses. It had been scraping alone for about three years with the stock down to five cents and less.

But on the train, the great Dickover had said to— buy Apex Crown!

Had Dickover been uttering a grim jest, thinking that the drummer and Bowen would rush to operate on his tip? Was Apex Crown worthless? And what was Alice Ferguson's interest in this stock, this stock which on the curb market was unsought and unbought?

Bob Bowen reached the Crothers Building. The elevator-man informed him that Miss Ferguson was a public stenographer. Two minutes later he was shaking hands with her.

She was as he remembered her— dark, lithe, rather grave-eyed just at present but with merriment latent in her face; and altogether feminine. Bowen would have been amazed had he realized how he himself was smiling as he seldom smiled.

"I've often heard Judge Lyman say that you were the squarest man he knew, Mr. Bowen," said the girl frankly, and smiled as Bowen stammered dissent. "Nonsense! That is why I called on you. I'm up against it and don't know what I should do."

"Neither do I," returned Bowen cheerfully. "What's the trouble?"

"Well, my father was a business man in Tonopah. He died three years ago, leaving me alone. After his death, it developed that he had sunk all his money in Apex Crown stock; this was in the early days, you know. The stock looked valuable, but there was no immediate demand for it. Then gradually it went down, and stayed down—"

"How much stock?" demanded Bowen.

"Ten thousand shares."

"Whew! Say, that was a shame! A shame—"

"No. My father had good judgment as a rule," was the grave rebuke, and Bowen fell silent. The girl pursued her subject coolly. "This morning a broker looked me up and made me an offer of ten cents a share for the stock. I refused him, and he went up to twenty cents—"

"He— what?" broke out Bowen. "Twenty cents?"

"Yes. I told him that I'd give him my answer to-morrow. The paper said that you were largely interested in low-grade ores, and I thought you might know something about this Apex Crown. If it's really worth anything, of course I don't want to throw it away—"

"Hold on a minute! " Bowen drew forth an afternoon paper which he had bought and had stuffed into his overcoat pocket without reading. "I don't know anything definite, but if anything has broken loose— ah! Here we are! Look at this!"

Excitedly he laid on the desk before her the opened paper. His finger pointed to an obscure paragraph— a list of curb stocks. The first stock was Apex Crown. Five thousand shares had changed hands, at a price of five cents, before the paper had gone to press.

"Now, see here. Miss Ferguson!" exclaimed Bowen. "Yesterday on the train, I met Mr. Dickover; the big plunger, you know! He said to buy Apex Crown. Naturally, I thought he was handing me a stinger by way of a joke. But here five thousand shares have changed hands today! Do you realize that for the last year or two nobody would have that stock at any figure? And here a broker comes to you with an offer for your block—"

They stared at each other, wordless. A touch of crimson crept into the girl's cheeks. Their eyes exchanged the same message of comprehension, of surmise.

"You think," said the girl suddenly, that Dickover is taking control of Apex Crown?"

Bowen was silent for so long that the silence became painful.

"No," he returned at last. "No. I don't think he is. My cool judgment says he is not. But what's judgment anyhow? You hang on to that stock, Miss Ferguson!"

She flushed a little, but her eyes dwelt on his. "I— I need the money it would bring at twenty cents," she faltered. "And yet— look here, Mr. Bowen! I suppose you're a very busy man and I have no right to ask it—"

"I'm not busy," said Bowen bitterly. "I'm on a vacation. I'll do anything you ask."

"I was wondering if— if you would let me indorse the stock over to you, and then you could act as you think best. Either sell it, or bargain for a higher figure—"

She paused, her grave eyes intent upon his lean-muscled face.

"If it's too much to ask of you," she went on, "please say so. I don't want to make you trouble or to impose on you, Mr. Bowen; you're been altogether too good in wasting this much of your time on me—"

"Wasting it? Great Jehu! I was just kicking myself for wasting so much time in not knowing you— I mean," he added confusedly, "for not having wasted a little time in the past— no, I don't mean that either. Well, if you're willing to trust me, I'll do my best in the matter! Where's the stock?"

"I have the certificates here," and the girl turned to the desk, but not quickly enough to hide the new tide of crimson that had welled into her face. It was not hard for any young lady to see that Bob Bowen of Tonopah was flustered. And Bob Bowen, as this young lady knew very well, had the reputation of never being flustered by anything or any one.

Why should she not blush, at such an unspoken compliment?

3: A Quick Sale

ON the following morning Bob Bowen did not at once leap up and dress, nor did he disturb the morning paper. Instead, he lay quiet and frowned at the ceiling.

"No doubt at all about it," he reflected. "She never said a word about it, of course. She's not that kind. Just the same, it was there. It was in her eyes. Fear! She was afraid of something. That's why she gave me that stock in trust."

Instinct told him that he was right. Instinct had warned him from his first sight of Alice Ferguson that she was afraid of something. She had appealed to him for advice, yes; but fear had driven her further than she had first meant to go. Bowen had seen that hidden fear ere this, but not in the eye of a woman. It angered him.

What the devil was she afraid of? Rather— of whom? The answer was to Bowen quite obvious. Bowen had no use for brokers anyway. That hound of a broker who had visited her, had made some kind of threats, or had said something which put fear into her. Bowen swore to himself and looked at the time. It was seven thirty.

"I'll do it," he muttered, and opened his paper to the mining and stock page.

Instead of an obscure paragraph, he found that Apex Crown had leaped into prominence. The reasons, however, were entirely unknown. On the previous day some eight thousand shares had changed hands in San Francisco, and the price had closed at five cents' bid, none offered.

In Los Angeles, however, things were different. Southern California was the "boob" end of the State, where people speculated with penny stocks. Here a great deal of Apex Crown had been unloaded in past years, and yesterday had wakened the moribund stock. Here the price had closed at five and a half. Twelve thousand shares had been quietly picked up at two and three cents before the market had discovered the activity.

"Somebody's got agents at work, all right," said Bowen grimly. " And they offered the little girl as high as twenty! Wonder if Apex Crown broke into ruby ore? No, that's not likely over on those holdings. Something's going on secretly."

At that moment the telephone jingled.

"Yep, this is Bowen speaking. Who? Say it again. Oh, Dickover! Thought you were out of town — "

"I was," returned the squeaky voice of the fat man. "Now I'm back. And I want to see you right now. I'm coming up to your room."

"Come ahead."

Bowen struggled into his clothes hurriedly, wondering why Dickover was seeking him. After that ten-thousand-share block? No, Dickover wasn't buying low-grade stuff.

Five minutes later the fat man entered the room, puffing a little and eying Bowen with angry suspicion. He refused to sit down.

"See here!" he broke out suddenly. "When I slipped you a tip to take a flier in Apex Crown I didn't mean for you to jump into the market with both feet! Confound you, Bowen, what's back of this? Why are you buying stock all over California?"

Bowen's eyes twinkled as he surveyed his visitor.

"Guess you're on the wrong track, Dickover," he drawled. "When you told me about Apex Crown, I figured you were handing me a bum steer. I haven't bought a share of the stuff. Straight!"

"What? You mean it?" Dickover said.

Bowen laughed easily. "I'll prove it. I haven't ten dollars to my name, and if the hotel wanted me to pay my bill I'd have to work it out in jail. I'd look fine going around buying stock, I would!"

There was no doubting his words. Dickover mopped his round face.

"Damn it!" he said. "Who's doing it?"

"How much is it worth to you to know? I can tell you before ten o'clock."

"You can? What d' you know about it?"

"A friend of mine holds a block of ten thousand shares. Was offered twenty cents for it yesterday. Asked my advice, then transferred the stock to me to be held or sold on my judgment."

"Ten thousand shares, eh?" Dickover 's eyes narrowed. "Give you thirty."

"I'm not selling. Do you want to know who's buying, or don't you? How much for my information? I'll find out who wants this block— if you offer enough. I owe a bill here."

Dickover grunted. Then he emitted a falsetto chuckle.

"Five hundred. Waiting for you at ten o'clock."

"And your interest in the property?" Dickover grunted, turned, and left the room.

Bob Bowen hastened down to breakfast. He had learned that the magnate was keenly interested in Apex Crown— wanted to buy it himself. Why? The only plausible explanation was that Apex Crown had broken into a rich lode, and from his knowledge of the place Bowen thought this unlikely.

At eight forty-five Bowen was striding toward the Crothers Building. He had plenty to puzzle him, but refused to let himself be puzzled. He needed that five hundred dollars and needed it very much.

He went straight to Miss Ferguson's office, and found her just arrived. She greeted him with patent surprise, but with a smile that left no doubt of his welcome.

"Has that broker been here yet?" demanded Bowen bluntly.

"That broker? Oh, no! He didn't say what time he'd be here for his answer."

"He didn't need to. I figure that nine o'clock will fetch him, and if you don't mind, I want to sit around on the chance."

The girl looked away from him a moment, looked at the window, frowningly.

"Of course I don't mind," she said at last. " Only— I don't want you to lose your temper with him—"

Bowen laughed frankly, a boyish laugh that was good to hear on his lips.

"I never had any temper," he said. "I'm the mildest little fellow you ever did see. Miss Ferguson! Honest. I'm a business man. Now, suppose you sit down and let me dictate a letter to Judge Lyman. I don't mean to send it, but I mean your broker friend to hear me dictating. When he comes in, nod and smile and tell him to wait."

The girl sat down before her machine and slipped a sheet of paper into the roll.

"All ready?" asked Bowen. "Then shoot!

"My dear Judge:

" I'm here in the big town and having the time of my life. Them are the exact words. I yesterday met your erstwhile stenographer, Miss Ferguson, who has an office of her own and deserves it. I don't know of any one I'd sooner have met—"

Bowen paused, meeting the girl's eyes on his. "That's all right," he said hurriedly. "I'm writing the judge. Confidential letter. Go ahead!"

Smiling a little, the girl leaned forward. At that instant, however, the office door opened and a man appeared framed in the opening. Bowen gave him a casual glance. Miss Ferguson looked up and smiled— a bit frostily.

"I'll be through this letter in a moment," she said, "and shall be at liberty then. Just take a chair, please. Yes, Mr. Bowen?"

"Paragraph," said Bowen, now staring past her at the window. He was conscious that the stranger had taken a chair, "You got that property location all straight now?"

Miss Ferguson glanced up quickly, caught Bowen's vacant expression, and smothered the surprise in her eyes. "Yes," she said. "All ready."

Bowen proceeded with his dictation, apparently ignoring the listener.

"For these two holdings of mine— the Sunburst and the Golden Lode— I want more money than has been offered me as yet. They are, of course, low-grade ore, and if I can get rid of them at a reasonable figure, I shall do so at once.

"However, I have an appointment with Mr. Dickover at ten o'clock, and have good reason to believe—"

There came a sudden interruption— from the stranger.

"I beg your pardon," he said, stepping forward. "Of course I couldn't help overhearing your dictation, sir. May I ask if you are Mr. Robert Bowen of Tonopah?"

Bowen gave him a slow stare. " I am."

"By George! It's lucky I met you, then. I arrived from Tonopah myself a
couple of days ago, and have been trying to connect with you. My name's Henderson. While at Tonopah I looked over your holdings, among others; and if you'd consider an offer on them—"

Bowen drew a cigar from his pocket, bit off the end, and lighted it. He surveyed Henderson with indecision.

"I don't know you, Mr. Henderson," he observed coolly. "I don't want to sell those two properties, but I happen to need cash— in a hurry. My samples and assayers' reports are at the hotel—"

"I remember the properties very well," broke in Henderson. " I know you by reputation, and I know your ground by personal examination. Frankly, Mr. Bowen, I'm bucking the Dickover interests in a certain direction. If you'll give me an option—"

"Nothing doing!" snapped Bowen with finality. "Dickover is talking cold cash. Of course my ore is nothing wonderful—"

Henderson produced a check-book. "I'll give you a check for five thousand to cover both claims," he said quickly.  Not a cent more. Yes or no?"

"Now, I like your way of doing business!" said Bowen cordially. "That's what I call a man's way. Five thousand wins. Got any legal forms around, Miss Ferguson? Are you a notary?"

"I have and I am," said the girl quietly.

Twenty minutes later, with a witness called in from next door, Henderson was the owner of the Sunburst and Golden Lode claims. Bowen picked up the check for five thousand and handed it to Miss Ferguson.

"I don't know you, Henderson," he said quietly, "and I need cash badly. Further, I have an engagement in half an hour with Dickover and this must be settled one way or the other. So, Miss Ferguson, kindly step around the corner to the bank and cash this check for me. Good thing you deal with a local bank, Henderson."

"I'll go right with the young lady," spoke up Henderson. "I can facilitate the cashing of the check, perhaps."

"No," said Bowen, his gray eyes suddenly icy. "No. You stay here, Henderson. I want to have a little private conversation with you."

Henderson looked at him hard. Bowen 's tone had not been nice; but then, Bowen seemed to be on the inside, and private conversation was an alluring bait.

"Well—" he hesitated.

"You'd better stay," said Bowen calmly. Then he rose and stepped outside the door as Miss Ferguson left. He closed the door again and spoke to the girl in a low voice.

"Cash that check, then run up to the Palace and wait for me, will you? Please!"

The girl nodded. Her eyes sought his with a mischievous gleam. "You won't
hurt him?"

"Hurt him? Great Jehu! I should say not! Why, he's Dickover's confidential agent!"

4: Bowen Holds The Ace

BOB BOWEN re-entered the office, closed the door, set his chair against it, and sat down. Then he regarded the surprised and frowning " broker."

Mr. Henderson was a man to be seen once and remembered. He had a large nose, thin slits of black hawk-eyes, shaggy black brows, and a thin red line of mouth under a closed-clipped mustache. An able man, a forceful man, an unscrupulous man, this confidential agent of the magnate Dickover! Bowen, however, did not appear to be much impressed.

"You wonder why I'm sitting against the door, Mr. Henderson?" he drawled, chewing at his cigar. "For the obvious reason. To keep you from getting out."

Henderson stiffened. He was startled and taken aback. But Bowen continued his. drawl without observing the agitation of the impeccably dressed agent.

"There's silver," he ruminated, "and silver. Bar-silver used to be forty-seven; now it's over ninety and still climbing. A low-grade ore that cost eight dollars a ton to produce a few months ago and gave back eight dollars, was no good. Now, however, it gives back eight dollars' profit and is a paying proposition. Those claims I sold you are that kind.

"Some day, and I guess it isn't very far off, folks are going to discover a chemical process that will take a zinc-silver ore and separate the zinc and the silver. An ore of that kind to-day, isn't worth a tinker's dam. If that chemical process is discovered, it will be worth millions. And tucked up in my sleeve I've got a property just like that."

Henderson rose impressively.

"See here, Bowen," he observed, "I don't see what you're driving at, but if you mean that I can't leave this room—"

"You can leave it pretty quick," drawled Bowen. " But remember one thing! I'd like nothing better than to mix it with you! I'm just itching to hold you in a corner and pound off that big nose of yours; so don't start anything unless you want me to finish it."

"What do you mean talking to me like that?" snarled Henderson angrily. "A moment ago you sold me two claims, and now—"

"And now, having concluded business before pleasure, I'm talking. Miss Ferguson has transferred her block of Apex Crown to me."

Henderson's eyes narrowed. He started to speak, and bit back the words.

"That's right, don't get hasty," and Bowen grinned exasperatingly. "Took you by surprise, did it? Thought I didn't know you, eh? Well, I had sort of figured out that you might be you, and when you stepped in the door I knew it was you. Picking up low-grade silver properties, are you? I don't suppose that by any stretch of friendship you'd tell me why you're picking them up?"

Henderson's face went livid with anger.

"So you cut in ahead of me!" he rasped. "You got that little fool of a girl to hand over the stock—"

"Just one minute, Henderson!" Bowen lifted his hand. "I've got a terrible temper. It doesn't work very hard, not every day; but to hear names and epithets applied to honest women is something that sets it on a hair-trigger. Now, if I were you, Henderson, I'd just speak names and leave out the adjectives. Do you get me? Get me right off the jump?"

Henderson swallowed hard. It was plain to see that he was seething internally. But he knew men; that was his business. He looked into Bowen 's gray eyes, and controlled himself.

"What do you want?" he said slowly, his voice low and tense. "What are you driving at? Trying to force a bigger price for that stock out of me?"

"Nope," returned Bowen cheerfully. " But it isn't nice for a big man like you to come in here and try to threaten and browbeat a girl into giving away all she's got in the world. It's going to get you badly beaten up one of these days. However, now that you're dealing with me you might prove reasonable. How much will you give for that Apex Crown?"

"Thirty," growled Henderson.

"Buyin' for Dickover or yourself?" asked Bowen softly.

The agent uttered a lurid curse. Bowen rose and kicked away his chair, and opened the door.

"I thought so," he remarked cheerfully. " Well, I guess that check's cashed, so I'll mosey along. You needn't wait here for Miss Ferguson; she won't be back for quite a spell. And don't come down in my elevator; wait till I'm out of the way. And say— when you do come, shut the door after you, will you? So-long."

Bowen closed the door softly and strode off to the elevator. On the way down, he glanced at his watch. It was nine fifty.

"Lots of time," he thought. "I'll see Dickover, then meet the little lady."

At two minutes before the hour he inquired at the desk for Dickover, and was sent up to the latter's suite. He found Dickover declaiming to a private secretary, who admitted him and then retired discreetly. Bob Bowen dropped into a chair beside Dickover 's table and accepted the cigar shoved at him.

" I like your cigars," he observed pleasantly. "The flavor is a little strong for my taste, but it's real tobacco. And then the label is pretty. Don't know when I've ever seen a prettier one—"

"Confound you!" snapped the fat man. "What d' you know?"

"Well, I'm thirty years old, pretty near, and you'd be surprised to find how much I've learned in the last decade of that time! Experience is—"

"Damn your experience!" exploded Dickover. "Do you know who's buying Apex Crown?"

"Of course. Don't you?"

For answer, Dickover seized a check from the table and held it out. It was for five hundred dollars.

"Thanks." Bowen stuffed it carelessly into his pocket. "Since seeing you this  morning I've become fairly rich, and this will add a trifle to the pile. Your agent, Henderson, is the man after Apex Crown. Just offered thirty for the stock I hold."

The fat features of Dickover purpled with anger. But he suppressed his emotion, drew another cigar from his pocket, and lighted it.

"I rather suspected it, Bowen," he squeaked more calmly.  "Of course you didn't sell him the stock?"

"No. I'll sell it to you if you want it."

"Huh! How much you want?"

"Five dollars a share."

Dickover abandoned the subject, after an apoplectic choke.

"Tell you what, Bowen; that tip of yours sent me up to Tonopah in a hurry. I looked up Henderson and fired him— fired him good and hard. The confounded crook! Now I need another man to take his place. A man I can trust, and a man who can be trusted. Ten thousand a year if the man makes good."

"Too bad you didn't look around at Tonopah," said Bowen innocently. "I know heaps of good men up that way. You should have gone to Judge Lyman or Tom Jerkens or some of those men and had 'em pick you out a nice responsible party for that job. They know everybody up there. Where do you get these cigars? Think I'll buy me a box."

Dickover smoked for a moment in silence. Then he laughed.

"I did snoop around up there, Bowen," he remarked at last. "What kind of a cuss are you? This morning you couldn't pay your hotel bill; and now you turn down a ten-thousand-dollar job!"

Bob Bowen sighed.

"Well, I do say that it's tempting. It's just that, Dickover. But now I've got responsibilities, such as that Apex Crown stock."

"Huh! Well, you know those mines you told me about— the Sunburst and the Golden Lode? I looked 'em up in Tonopah. How much you want for 'em both?"

Bowen looked up, genuinely startled.

"You want to buy?''

"Uhuh. If the price is right."

Bowen grinned. " Say, this is pretty rich! Listen here. An hour ago I was talking with Henderson, and talking soft. Somehow he got the notion that you were waiting here to buy those two claims off me. Savvy? He jumps into the breach with five thousand, which is now mine. The claims are his—"

Dickover purpled with indignation.

"You sold out to him; to that dirty yellow dog? What the jumping devils do you mean by it? Why didn't you sell to me―"

"Now, you just pour some ice-water over your scalp and cool off." Bowen's long, lean forefinger shot out at him. "How the jumping devils did I know you wanted to buy those claims? How did I know you wanted any low-grade stuff? In yesterday's paper you said you did not want it— you've never touched it before—"

Dickover waved his hand in helpless resignation.

"Oh, shut up, Bowen! Let me think, will you?"

For a space the two men smoked in silence. Dickover's fat features were tensed in frowning thought. To Bowen but one thing was patent: the magnate was now after low-grade silver ores. If he had not sold those two claims to Henderson in such a hurry! He had certainly been hoist with his own petard that time!

The thought made him chuckle. At the sound, Dickover began to speak slowly.

"Bowen, you say you want five dollars for that Apex Crown? Now, I'll speak frankly. Apex Crown will be worth five dollars— but not for a few years. For the past week my men have been secretly buying it in at two cents; and now I want that
block of yours. That or nothing! I'll offer you par, one dollar, for that stock. If you refuse, I'll wash my hands of the whole mess and throw what I've bought on the market at the present price. Speak quick! If I take the mine, it goes up in value. If I don't take it, it's dead."

Bowen stared at his cigar. He did not doubt that Dickover was in earnest. And suddenly a light broke upon him. It was vague and foggy, but it was light.

"See here!" He leaned forward earnestly. "I'll put this Apex Crown offer up to my friend— she's a lady. I'll go to my own room and call her up. In the mean time, you get Tonopah over long-distance. Anybody there you'd trust down to the ground?"

Dickover, eying him, nodded. "Judge Lyman is my local attorney there and is one of the best men I know in the world."

"That goes for me. Well, you want lowgrade ores of big body and zinc-silver mixture ; same as the Apex Crown and Sunburst and Golden Lode, eh? All right. Now, I've had an ace up my sleeve for some years. I've called it the Big Bony, and it's located down Rhyolite way. The ore runs zinc-silver strong, just like these others; only Big Bony has it in large quantities.

"Until about ten minutes ago, Dickover, that group of claims was not worth a cuss. To you, if my guess is right, it's now worth all the money I need in my business— say thirty thousand dollars. Judge Lyman knows all about it; has had assayers report on it, has visited the place himself with me, and owns a bunch of claims the other side of it. You call up Lyman before I come back."

"Yes?" prompted Dickover as Bowen paused. The magnate was keen-eyed, attentive.

"That ore, I believe, is what you want. It's really worth a big bunch more than thirty thousand; but I'm needing thirty thousand bad, right now! Will you buy it at that?"

Dickover reached for the desk telephone. ''I'll talk to Lyman. His word is good for all the money I own."

"Good! I'll be back pretty soon."

Bob Bowen sought his own room and requested the office to page Miss Ferguson, who was somewhere about the parlors.

While waiting, he strode up and down savagely. Ten thousand dollars meant a fortune to this girl! If the offer was rejected, Dickover would carry out his word and flood the market with Apex Crown. Sooner than make Henderson rich, he would smash Apex Crown and Henderson together.

The telephone jingled. Bowen caught up the receiver and heard Miss Ferguson's voice.

"This is Bob Bowen speaking, Miss Ferguson. I'll be down in a few minutes. Dickover has made me an offer of ten thousand for your stock, and I want your advice."

He heard the girl's voice catch. "Ten— ten thousand! "

"Yep. What I want to know is this: Do you want me to play safe on this stock or do you want me to handle it as I would my own? I warn you, there's a vast difference between the two! I can't warn you too seriously."

She did not reply at once. Bowen waited until waiting grew intolerable.

"Hello! Are you there. Miss Ferguson?"

"Yes. I— I was thinking. Please, Mr. Bowen, handle that stock entirely as if it were your own. I'll take the chance!"

"Good! Thank Heaven for your courage! I'll be down presently."

He had quite forgotten the five thousand which she bore for him.

Bowen returned to Dickover's rooms in no great haste ; talking with Tonopah would take time as well as money. But when he entered, he found Dickover giving his private secretary some instructions. "And rush the papers here!" concluded the magnate. "With witnesses."

"Well?" Bowen dropped into a chair, as if casually. "Did you get Lyman yet?"

"The boy's making out the papers now. I'll buy. What did your lady friend say?"

Bowen felt a trickle of sweat run down his back. The game was won— almost!

"One thing at a time," he said, laughing. "Let's clean the Big Bony off the slate, then clean off the Apex Crown."

"Uhuh. One thing I meant to tell you, Bowen. Keep your eye peeled for Henderson! That fellow is bad medicine when he's crossed, and I judge by your manner that you have crossed him some this morning."

"I did, I hope," Bowen chuckled. The magnate grunted non-committally.

In ten minutes the ownership of the Big Bony group of claims was transferred from Bob Bowen to Dickover. The secretary and witnesses departed. Bowen pocketed the magnate's check for thirty thousand dollars.

"You lost another thirty on that deal," said Dickover complacently.

"I'll clean up fifty with the thirty I got," retorted Bowen. The other chuckled.

"I'll gamble that you do, at that! Well, about the Apex Crown—"

"We hang on to it."

The eyes of the two men met and held for a long moment.

"Then," Dickover's fist crashed down on the table, "you'll go smash! All or nothing is my motto. In three days you won't get three cents for that stock— and what's more, you never will get three cents for it!"

Bowen rose, his lips curving in a smile.

"Maybe. Well, I'm glad to have met you. Hope we meet again."

"Same here." The two men shook hands. Dickover extended another cigar. "Smoke up on me after lunch, Bowen. Sorry you're going smash with that block of Apex Crown!"

"I'll be sorry if I do," said Bowen cryptically. "So-long!"

5: Bowen Takes A Partner

WITHOUT comment, Bowen took the flat packet Miss Ferguson handed him, dropped into the big plush chair beside her, and glanced at his watch.

" Eleven o'clock. Time to talk before lunch." He glanced around and found they were in no danger of eavesdroppers. Then, with leaping pulses, he told the girl of his conversations with Henderson and Dickover.

"And I refused Dickover's offer," he concluded bluntly, " and accepted his threat to smash the stock. He'll do it, too. By this time he's sent orders to his brokers to sell it, to smash the market flat."

The girl's eyes were steady on his.

''I'm content," she said curtly. "But please explain. You've some scheme?"

"You've said it. Some scheme! Do you mind if I smoke? My nerves are Jumpy, and they'll be worse before they're better."

She made a gesture of impatient assent. He lighted Dickover's parting gift and for a space sat in silence, his face deeply lined in thought.

"I've got to make this clear to you," he said at last slowly. "You know anything about low-grade silver ores?"

"Very little."

"They're low-grade because they are mixed with lead or zinc, hold a small proportion of silver, and yield very small profit. The separation of the silver and zinc is difficult. A hyperstatic process has been invented, but if a chemical process could be found, it would be cheaper and better; besides, it would make a yield of zinc as well as of silver. And to-day both zinc and silver are soaring. You understand?"

She nodded quickly. "And— and you think such a process has been found?"

A gleam of admiration sprang into Bowen's gray eyes. For the first time, he smiled his likable, boyish smile.

"Great Jehu, there is nothing slow about you!" he breathed. ''Yes. My guess— and mind this, it's no more than a guess— is that Dickover has advance information that this chemical process is now a verity. You see? It is probably workable on ores of a certain silver-zinc combination. I deduce this from the fact that the Apex Crown, the two holdings I sold Henderson, and the Big Bony I sold Dickover are of almost the same identical ore properties. Only such a discovery would get Dickover after low-grade ores."

She was leaning forward now, her eyes shining like twin stars.

"I see! Of course!" she exclaimed eagerly. "Henderson learned of this and at once went out on his own hook to secure all the mines and claims possible containing this grade of ore! And Dickover is here in San Francisco to buy everything in sight before news of the discovery has broken! Is that it?"

"You've said it. So far all's straight. Got any questions ready?"

"Heaps!" The girl laughed, then instantly grew grave. " Dickover knows that

Henderson is a traitor and has been buying Apex Crown; yet Dickover is ready to buy our stock, make the Apex Crown a great success and enrich Henderson! Why?"

"I've doped it out; I struck the same snag myself— and others, too. Like this! If Dickover gets our block of stock, he controls that mine. He can let it lie useless for years, until Henderson has given up hope and sold out the stock he's been buying. And until that happens, Dickover lets the mine lie dead for five years or fifty! Savvy?"

"Sure, so far." Miss Ferguson frowned. It's getting involved, though. The salient fact is the human equation— Dickover wants to smash Henderson first, then develop the mine!"

"Exactly. He knows that Henderson is loaded to the guards with the stock and is taking all that's offered."

"Then why does Dickover threaten to throw all his stock on the market? How would that smash anybody? Henderson could simply buy it up, control the mine, and develop it by means of the new chemical process! "

Bowen leaned back in his chair and puffed for a moment.

"Right there is where I had to make another quick guess, Miss Ferguson. But I think I'm right. I know I'm right! From what I remember of the Apex Crown affair, a fair quantity of stock was issued in the early days; close to half a million, I believe. We can verify the figures this afternoon. With Henderson and Dickover scrapping over a mere block of ten thousand shares, you see they have absorbed about all of that stock that was lying around loose. Call it about two hundred thousand shares or more to each of them.

"Now, when Dickover issued his Apex Crown ultimatum, I thought about what I'd do if I were in his place and with his power; and upon that it flashed over me exactly what he would do— the only thing he logically could do, upon such a threat as his! Remember that Dickover knows human nature and gambles on it; remember, also, he has agents or brokers in every large city in the country, and can strike contemporaneously at a moment's notice."

"All clear so far," said the girl quietly. "And your prophecy—"

"Is this: By to-day the stock is probably up to ten cents or more, and none offered. Dickover to-day issues orders to throw overboard the stock, beginning to-morrow morning; to throw overboard in such big blocks that Henderson will know where it's coming from. He'll hammer down the market, hammer it down until the stock is back to two cents or less.

"And what happens? Will Henderson buy everything in sight? No. He won't have the money or the nerve. He's a traitor, remember, and a traitor has a yellow spot somewhere. Henderson will think that the Apex Crown ore has proven unfit for going through the new chemical process; or he may think that Dickover has put some string on the property that makes the stock worthless; he may think any of a dozen things, and he will. He'll think all of 'em! Instead of finding himself grown rich by a sneaky, slick trick, he'll find Dickover fighting him— and his nerve will go."

"Possibly," agreed the girl, watching Bowen with fascinated eyes. "But it's a poor thing to bet on, isn't it? What's the rest of the prophecy?"

Bowen smiled grimly. "Quite logical. Henderson will find that he gave me five thousand of his cash when he's going to need it all. Before the market is quite smashed down to its original state, he's going to loosen up on a big bunch of his stock. He'll argue that at the right moment. When Dickover begins to buy in again, he, too, can step forward and get back his own — with some of Dickover's to boot; enough to give him control."

" And," cried the girl quickly, "Dickover knows that he'll think so! With all his organization and power, Dickover will step in first! Before Henderson can do it, Dickover has done it. Is that the idea?"

"Exactly." Bowen puffed for a moment; that cigar was too good to be allowed to die. "Exactly. If Henderson does have the nerve to stick, Dickover will beat him anyhow. Now do you see what the game of Dickover is?"

" I see. And I think I agree with you— Henderson will lack nerve. He'll begin to unload his stock at four cents, will unload more at three, and throw off all of it at two to break even. Then, when he's cleaned out of the stock, Dickover will rob the whole market!"

"Bully for you!" exclaimed Bowen eagerly. "I knew you'd understand!"

"Thank you." She smiled, a trifle wanly. He saw that the strain of understanding had been telling- upon her. After all, that block of stock was hers! " But I don't understand yet why you refused Dickover 's offer for my stock; and I don't understand why you sold him a mine at half its value!"

"I sold him that mine because I was going to need the money right after lunch— and need it badly." Bowen rose. "As for why I refused his offer, let that go until we have lunch. I've licked Henderson and Dickover this morning, which is going some; now I must add you to the list— and I need a stimulant before opening fire."

The girl made no demur. They sought the dining-room together; Bowen, no less than Alice Ferguson, was keyed up to a high tension by the big game, and the biggest game was still ahead of him— the hardest work.

Midway through luncheon, Bowen was sought by special messenger and was handed a folded message. He put it in his pocket without reading, and smiled across the table.

"Information for which I phoned. I don't think much of brokers as a class, but I do know of one man in the game whom I'd trust— Gus Saunders. Ever hear of him?"

The girl shook her head. Bowen switched the subject. He took pains to impress upon Miss Ferguson that he was not the magnate she had thought him. He felt impelled to stand upon a frankly honest footing with this level-eyed girl; he could do nothing else.

"And it was meeting Dickover on the train and here at the hotel," she said, laughter twinkling in her eyes, "that started you on this high finance wave? Good gracious! If I'd known that when you called up about the stock—"

"Well? What would you have said?"

" Just what I did say! " she finished with a laugh. "Now here comes our coffee. Can't you possibly unburden your mind yet? I can't stand this suspense a moment longer!"

Bowen grinned and slipped the waiter a gold piece. They were in a corner of the big dining-room, and to themselves.

"Here, my friend! Keep everybody away from us and don't bother us until I call you!" The waiter bobbed and departed, and Bowen drew a sigh of relief. "Now! We'll wade in."

He produced the packet of notes, and Dickover 's check for thirty thousand, and laid them on the table before him. Then he drew forth the message that had been brought him.

" Miss Ferguson, my proposition is simply this: That we go into partnership on the Apex Crown. This message is from Gus Saunders. The Apex Crown issued five hundred thousand shares, and the original holders unloaded everything about a year ago, so that the entire issue is on the market — or is divided between Henderson and Dickover. We've already figured out that by to-morrow most of that stock will be back on the market temporarily."

"Until Dickover can swallow it at a gulp," she added.

"Sure. That mine is highly valuable property— if the chemical process has really been discovered. That's what I'm gambling on; I'm certain that in about another fortnight the mining world will get the news. So, then, let's get busy! I propose that you and I step in at the psychological moment, when Dickover has scared Henderson into unloading; that we make a bold strike and gobble about three hundred thousand shares of that stock at the lowest figure. In short, that we grab the Apex Crown for ourselves! Are you game?"

He was leaning forward, his lean face tensed, his gray eyes holding her gaze.

For a moment she did not respond. When she did answer, her words surprised him.

"Mr. Bowen, I— I don't see why you make this proposition to me. You have enough money there on the table to handle the affair yourself. I cannot put any money into it."

"What! Then you don't want to go into it? You have no faith in my theories?"

"Please don't misunderstand me!" she replied quickly. "I've every faith in you. But I cannot enter upon a partnership where I can give nothing. Because I'm a girl, you're generous to me— and I don't want people to be generous; I can fight my own battles—"

From Bowen broke a sudden ejaculation.

"Great Jehu! Of all the nonsense I ever heard, this is the worst!"

"Well! Isn't it true?"

"No!" he exclaimed savagely. "It is not true! Not as you think. See here, don't you like the scheme? Don't you realize that it's a big thing if successful?"

"Of course I do. But— if I were not a woman, you'd not offer this partnership."

It was Bowen's turn to take the aggressive ; he did it with a vim and earnestness that brought the color flooding into her cheeks.

"You're right. I wouldn't! It's because you are a woman that I want you for
partner in this business; I need you ! Fighting for myself, I'd be apt to do any fool trick. But with your interests hanging on mine, fighting for you as well as for myself, saddled with the responsibility of your trust and your future— why, I'd fight like hell! Excuse me. I didn't mean that profanely, but literally.

"I tell you frankly. Miss Ferguson, you'd be an inspiration to any man! I don't talk like this to every woman. I've never felt like this before in my life. I never met you before, that's the reason! When I say I need you for a partner, I mean just that.

"Get angry if you want to; I can't help it. This isn't a question of what money you can put in. You can put in your block of stock, for that matter; the rest is personality, outbalancing all the money on earth! You can help me with your advice, your character. I'm not offering you charity, God knows!

"Now, it's up to you— my cards are on the table. Say no, and I'll give you ten thousand for your stock. Say yes, and we'll go into the game as fighting partners. Which is it?"

In his appeal was force and something better than force— earnestness.

Alice Ferguson recognized it. She worked for her living, and had learned to know something of what might lie beneath the words of a man. She saw that Bowen's speech might be crude and a bit too frank; but she saw that he meant it. She read down to the good honest soul of the man from Tonopah, and found honesty there. She realized that he did indeed need her; that it would be a coward's part to fail him. And he was a man to trust.

" Yes," she said, her eyes grave.

Bowen relaxed suddenly, drew a long breath like a sigh. He had been tremendously keyed up to that moment.

" Then let's go," he said, rising. "Let's go see Gus Saunders."

6: Potential Millionaires

ONCE they were settled in a taxicab, Bowen produced the five thousand in notes, removed the rubber-bands from the package, and counted out twenty fifties.

"Here." He handed the girl ten of the yellow-backs. "I need expense money and so do you. Five hundred apiece will do."

"But—"

"No time to be squeamish! We're partners. This is an advance on the profits."

Miss Ferguson offered no further objection.

They found Gus Saunders awaiting them in his private office. A conservative broker, this, albeit a young man; by inheritance the junior head of a big firm: clean-cut in every line, and a good sportsman. Bowen had frequently met him at Tonopah.

"Miss Ferguson, allow me to introduce Mr. Saunders. Miss Ferguson is my partner at present, Gus, in a deal we've got on hand; looks like a big one, and we need your help."

"That's my business," and the broker smiled. "There's a curb stock by the name of—"

"Hold on! " Saunders flung up his hands. "Don't talk curb stock to me. Don't touch the stuff, and you ought to know it! "

"Shut up till I get through!" snapped Bowen, and grinned. "You're refusing no good business that comes along; and I'm paying you any commission on this job that you care to name, I'll trust your end of it, Gus— and there's no one else I can trust."

"Well," conceded the other, " let's hear about it."

"Neither Miss Ferguson nor I are very wise to the brokerage game," pursued Bowen, "but we've doped out a theory and a course of action, and if it's O. K.'d by you, and if it is feasible, then you can shoot ahead. To-morrow there is going to be some whopping big activity in Apex Crown, both here and at Los Angeles.

"Everybody is going to unload that stuff; the market is to be crammed down to two cents or under— probably under. At two cents, the man who's behind the move figures on jumping in and getting control of the mine. Savvy? All right.

"Now, we want you to step in ahead of him. When that stock touches three cents, step softly and begin to buy. At two cents grab it with both hands. Keep on grabbing until the price goes up again to ten — "

"Just one minute, please!" broke in Miss Ferguson excitedly. "If this activity does not begin until to-morrow, why can't we begin to-day? Every share we get is going to count for control of the mine, Mr. Bowen. If we can get some to-day, each of our friends will think the other man is buying it."

"Good," assented Bowen crisply. "Now, Gus, will you handle it for us? You have plenty of agents, and can pull the strings at the right moment without trouble."

The broker chuckled. "This is the first time I ever manipulated curb stocks, Bob! But we'll tackle it. You don't want to buy two-cent stocks on a margin, I suppose?"

Bowen emitted a sarcastic grunt, and drew forth his cash and checks.

"Here are two checks Dickover handed me this morning," and he was not above feeling an inner satisfaction at the broker's quickly concealed surprise, "and some cash. An even thirty-four thousand, five hundred in all. Will that turn the deal?"

"What do you folks think you're buying— Amalgamated Motors? This ought to buy the Apex Crown outright— half of it ought to buy all the shares on the market!"

"Half of it won't," said Bowen grimly. "And you take out your commission before the money evaporates, because we haven't any more! But you get us control of that mine, and as much more as the cash will let you buy."

"All right. Let's sign up the orders. Do you want to stick around here and get my reports as they come in?"

"Not me," said Bowen emphatically. "Bob Bowen does not intend to become a hanger-on and a parasite, with his nerves snapping and bursting all to h— all to thunder! You call me up at the Palace when I'm broke or when the deal is over."

Ten minutes later Bowen and Miss Ferguson returned to the street.

"Please don't call a taxi!" The girl laughed. "It's such— such an awful waste of money— and I'd much sooner walk!"

"We'll be millionaires on this deal; we should worry! However, I'm with you. Let's walk. Where next?"

"Where? Why, I'll have to get back to the office—"

"The office? And you a potential millionaire?"

She laughed, and not nervously this time. Bowen's air was infectious.

"I think I'll hang on to that office, Mr. Bowen! Anyway, I've promised to turn out some work by to-night."

They walked along in silence until they reached the Crothers Building. At the entrance the girl paused and turned to Bowen.

"You haven't told me what you expect to do with that mine — when we get it!"

"Do! Why, what did you suppose? Work it by the new chemical process, of
course! Or else sell it outright; once the process is on the market, a mine like the Apex Crown will be a bargain at a million! Dickover knows. He said the stock would be worth five dollars a share— when he got ready to make it worth that!"

"Very well." Miss Ferguson put out her hand. "I'll say good-by for this time and get back to work. You'll let me know?"

"You bet I will!" exclaimed Bowen heartily, seeking a pretext for detaining her, but finding none.

He strode along to the Palace with his head in the clouds. Come to think of it, he had earned an afternoon of loafing!

All the previous day he had been watching his plans go from bad to worse, despite the puff he had received in the paper. But at nine o'clock this morning things had begun to move, and they had continued to move with lightning rapidity. His brain had been on the jump keeping one step ahead. For five hours he had been under a growing mental strain which had told tenfold upon his iron-bound physical self.

In five hours he had taken in thirty-five thousand, five hundred dollars, most of it from a man whom he could never have approached in an ordinary way. The whole thing had started with his meeting on the limited with Dickover and the drummer. And now the majority of that money had been laid out on a gamble which might— might— return millions! If he could grab enough of Henderson's stock and Dickover's stock combined, at the moment both men had unloaded; if he could step in ahead of Dickover and at the proper moment get control—

"I've got to stop thinking about this thing," he muttered fiercely. "It's got my brain turning handsprings. There's nothing for me to do, anyhow! Everything is in the hands of Gus Saunders now. I need a bracer, and I'm going to get it. Then I'll buy some magazines and loaf a while."

Bowen was the type of man who takes a drink only when he really needs it, and does not need it often. Now he needed it, and straightway got it. Then he visited a few shops. Having bought some clothes and certain other things of which he stood in need, he returned to the hotel, deposited most of his five hundred in the hotel safe, and settled down in the lobby over some magazines.

For half an hour he read and let his jangled nerves relax. He refused utterly to look up Apex Crown in the papers.

Suddenly he realized that his own name was being called by an evanescent page with a tray. " Mr. Bow-en! Mr, Bowen!"

Rising, Bowen attracted the attention of the buttoned autocrat and was handed a card. It read:

"Oliver Hazard Perry Cheadle, Mineralogist."

"The gentleman's at the desk? Send him up to my room in five minutes."

Bowen betook himself to the elevator. Who was Oliver Hazard Perry Cheadle? The name was totally unknown to him. Arriving at his room, he sought the telephone directory, but found no such name listed.

Mr. O. H. P. Cheadle proved to be a plump, chalky-faced little man with the bland countenance of a cherub. His eyelids blinked behind thick spectacles. His linen was dirty to a degree. He spoke with a slow hesitance in the selection of words. He shook hands with a limp, flaccid grip.

"Mr. Bowen, may I request— er— a few moments of your— er— time? You are a very busy man, I know, but I believe that I have a— er— a proposition to interest you. I read of your being here in— er— the paper—"

"Sit down and rest your heels," said Bowen cordially, laughing to himself.

So here was another result of his publicity! It was something to be a public character, to be classed with the great Dickover!

Mr. Oliver Hazard Perry Cheadle, like a solemn little owl, went directly to business. He had just come to town from Arizona. He had a mine to sell. He had seen by the paper that Bob Bowen, of Tonopah, was heavily interested in low-grade silver properties. His holdings were not silver, but were copper-zinc, and he was so badly in need of ready money, et cetera.

Bowen heard him out. After all, why not have a crack at everything that offered? Zinc-copper ore was not unattractive in prospect.

"Besides, I've nothing to keep me busy," he thought. And said aloud, "Let's see the samples."

Mr. Cheadle was apologetic. The samples and assayer's report were all at his own lodgings. He had not ventured to think that Mr. Bowen— er— would be interested off-hand, and—

"Well, let's go have a look," said Bowen, rising. The humility of Mr. Cheadle was slightly annoying. "Where are you stopping? Oh, don't protest, man; I'm free for the day."

It appeared that Mr. Cheadle was stopping at a rooming-house just off Sutter Street. Together the two men descended to the street, where the magnate hailed a taxicab. Bob Bowen, of Tonopah, believed in enjoying affluence while he had it.

The taxi sped out Sutter, crossed Van Ness, and a few blocks farther on veered to the left and halted before one of the extremely old-fashioned residences, high off the sidewalk, which in this section of the city had escaped the fire.

Being a stranger to San Francisco, Bob Bowen did not realize that they had entered upon what in these latter days had become the Japanese quarter; nor, had he known, would the fact have meant anything to him. He felt a mingled repulsion and interest in Oliver Hazard Perry Cheadle. It was entirely reasonable that an impecunious Hassayamper would have sought just such a dingy, antiquated rooming-house as this.

And Bowen reasoned why not pass the good work along? He himself had come to town practically broke; a clap on the back from Dickover had put him on the path to fortune. Why not lend the same halo to Oliver Hazard Perry Cheadle?

Thus thinking, with a righteous glow of generosity warming the cockles of his heart, Bob Bowen allowed himself to be ushered into a dark hallway. To Bowen's surprise, the hallway seemed roofed by stars and specks of light ; he was only dimly conscious of a crushing blow on the head that sent him reeling and staggering into utter darkness.

7: A Pair Of Profiteers

WHEN a man is hit on the back of the head, hard enough to knock him out without any error, it hurts. Bob Bowen discovered this fact with a vengeance. He had never before been hit on the head with malice prepense; and when he came to himself he was slow in realizing what had happened, and why. He was conscious of a light, and also of a keenly stabbing headache. There seemed to be a lump of some consequence behind his right ear.

The light presently made itself clear as coming from a gas-jet against the wall. Bowen was quite uncertain about his perspective, but finally decided that he was lying on the floor. Pain in his wrists and ankles told him that, incredible though it seemed, his wrists and ankles were lashed together too tightly for comfort.

"Guess I'm not supposed to be comfortable," he murmured, with the ghost of a smile. The murmur produced an effect.

Into the area of gaslight above Bowen appeared a face. It was a plump but chalky face, the face of Oliver Hazard Perry Cheadle. Gone were the thick spectacles and the bland, cherubic expression. In the stead of them there was a leering grin that quite transfigured the erstwhile mineralogist from Arizona.

"Dropped you!" said Mr, Cheadle, with a complete absence of hesitation or culture. "You poor fish! Dropped you like a innercent babe, I did! Mebbe Henderson won't grin when he lamps that mug of yours. But why you don't carry more cash in your pocket, I don't see—"

The voice died away, and the livid face. Bowen felt unconsciousness swirling upon him; but before his senses lapsed, he realized that things are seldom what they seem, and that in his first half-amused judgment of Mr. Cheadle he had made a grievous error. Then he fell asleep, entirely satisfied on that point.

When he wakened again he saw through half-closed lids that now it was broad daylight. Hearing the voices of two men in the room, and recognizing both voices, Bowen did not open his eyes fully. Instead, he shut them again and kept them shut for a time.

His head was still hurting, but not with that first keen pain; it was now the dulled, deadened hurt of an old bruise. It no longer dominated him. He had wakened alert, with full memory of what had passed; he was, in short, pretty much himself, except for the cold anger that possessed him. A burning thirst consumed him, but anger dominated it.

And when Bob Bowen was angry to the bottom of his soul, he was not the man to pause over half-way measures, or to ask himself what might happen. He knew what would happen if he got the chance!

"He ain't wise to the world yet," said the voice of Cheadle. "Want to stir him up?"

"No," the more biting tones of Henderson made response. " No time for that now. Let it wait until to-night."

"Well, what then?" Cheadle was evidently impatient. "I'm tired o' being a door-mat, Henderson. I want to know how the big stroke is comin', and why; and about this poor boob— what's going to happen to him and us. No more obeying orders till I know why, boss."

The ugly note in that voice was manifest even to Bowen. Henderson replied quickly.

"Him? Oh, leave him till to-night. I'm not going to hurt him any more; just let him know he mustn't butt into my games after this. We'll scatter some whisky on his clothes and take him over to the Mission and leave him. He isn't the sort of fool who spills all he knows to the police; he's too wise to buy chips in a stacked game! He'll take his lesson.

"And now come along and we'll sit in at the big game."

Footsteps and silence. Then the two voices again, less clear this time, but quite intelligible, and a scrape of chairs.

Bowen opened his eyes. He was lying on the floor of a disordered bedroom, lighted by a dingy window. Three feet from him a curtain closed an old-style double door-way; the doors were not pulled to, and in the other room were Henderson and Cheadle. The former telephoned to some unknown "Charley," and gave orders to be kept in touch with every move of Apex Crown. Then he and Cheadle fell into conversation, earnest and low-voiced.

Though he caught only scraps of that conversation, Bowen listened in astounded incredulity. Before him the two speakers unfolded a deeper and craftier knavery than he had ever dreamed; schooled as he was in the tricky mining game, the former agent of Dickover was now springing something unrivaled in his experience for audacity and duplicity! From the muttered voices Bowen was enabled to piece together the following scheme of things:

Cheadle was the superintendent in charge of the Apex Crown development.

Two months previously, Dickover had received private information that a chemical process for treating zinc-silver ore economically was being perfected. He had at once sent Henderson on a private trip to pick up low-grade silver properties and form a gigantic combination; for as soon as news of the chemical process reached the market, low-grade silver would soar. Henderson had found from Cheadle that the Apex Crown was petering out. The vein had been worked to death, and there was no promise of picking up anything beyond. Whereupon Henderson had conceived a plan amazingly bold and clever, Cheadle being his accessory and abettor.

Henderson had sent Dickover a glowing report on the Apex Crown. Cheadle had sent his stockholders news that a twenty-five-foot vein was opening up. Therefore Dickover had issued orders to add Apex Crown to his low-grade holdings. Henderson had quietly bought for himself.

"So we now own some two hundred thousand shares," went on the voice of Henderson. Bowen drank in every word. He felt a cold sweat trickling down his spine as he realized that Apex Crown was worthless.

"Sure," rejoined Cheadle. "But I don't get this highbrow play with Dickover! Why bust things off with him?"

"To make him hate me." Henderson laughed silkily. " The day before Dickover came to town, I went to this Ferguson girl, made her a big offer for her stock, and then made her mad with some bullying. I figured she'd go to Dickover or some of his brokers for advice. Instead, she went to this boob, Bowen. You see? Bowen did the rest. He tipped off Dickover that I was crooked; Dickover fired me, hating me like hell! Now, Apex Crown was at nine and a half this morning— hello! There's a report."

The telephone rang.

"Sell?" rasped Henderson, a fighting edge to his voice. "Sell? You sell when I tell you to, and not before! No! You'll not sell— till I give the order!"

He slammed up the receiver and emitted an oath.

"Charley says the stock is getting shot all to pieces! Some one is unloading in chunks from one to ten thousand— it's down to seven here, and four at Los Angeles. That's Dickover's work. He's cramming the market down — "

"What!" From Cheadle broke a startled cry. "Then he's discovered—"

"Shut up!" snarled Henderson. "He's discovered nothing, I tell you! He's doing the very thing I'd expected him to do Don't you suppose I know Dickover from start to finish? D'you think I've been his confidential agent without knowing him like a book?"

"Then why the hell is he unloading?" growled Cheadle.

"To bust me. He thinks I'm trying to get hold of Apex Crown. He's doing the very thing I knew he would do— I knew it from the day I met you first and got your report of the petering vein! He figures that because I double-crossed him I've got a yellow streak. He thinks that I want Apex Crown because I know about that chemical process. And what does he do? He—"

Cheadle broke in with a coarse laugh. "Then he still thinks the ol' mine is worth hanging on to?"

"Of course. You and I are the only men who know it isn't worth a damn. Dickover hates me now, hates me bad enough to ruin himself to get my pelt. He's trying to smash Apex Crown as flat as a pancake, and he'll do it before noon to-day! He figures that I'll get scared. He's dead sure that I've got a yellow streak. He's gambling that when Apex Crown gets away down, I'll grow scared and unload to save something from the wreck. See?"

"Uhuh! But what will you do? What's your game? How the devil do we make a killing out of this?"

"We bought our stock at two to five cents, didn't we?" Henderson laughed. "About noon Apex Crown will be flat. When it is, then I dump over a hundred thousand shares in small lots. Dickover thinks I've fully unloaded; he steps in to grab the stock. I help him by grabbing back my hundred thousand shares, and the price goes up. Worse than that, it skyrockets! When it gets to a dollar, which is about the limit, we'll unload for good. We'll get rid of the whole thing at between a dollar and fifty— and clean up a hundred thousand odd dollars!"

"Whew!" Cheadle 's whistle of admiration changed and died suddenly. "But say! Ain't that stock juggling illegal? Ain't the gov'ment going to investigate?"

"Let 'em!" Henderson laughed scornfully. "If they can ever prove anything on Dickover or me, either, let 'em! Think we are fools? With that hundred thousand, and the low-grade properties I've already got, I'll be fixed for life when news of that chemical process gets into print! And I'll see that it does get into print before many more days."

Again the telephone jingled.

"Some boob is buying," snarled Henderson, reporting to his partner in rascality. "But the price is going down just the same. Four here and two and a half in Los Angeles."

The voices dropped beyond the hearing of Bowen. But he had heard enough. The irony of the situation was that Henderson did not in the least realize that his clever scheme was utterly ruining the man he hated. Bob Bowen, of Tonopah!

"And he sha'n't know it if I can help it," grimly reflected Bowen.

He fought down the panic that gripped him. He felt no satisfaction at having correctly guessed Dickover's plan of campaign. He felt no delight at having correctly guessed that a chemical process had been perfected. All this was lost in the thought that he had ruined Alice Ferguson. For himself he did not greatly care. He had been broke before, and would be broke again!

But the thought of the girl who had believed in him, hurt and rankled. It must now be getting on toward noon, he concluded. By this time Gus Saunders, through scattered agents, was buying Apex Crown here and in Los Angeles; buying it for Bowen and Ferguson! Dickover was grimly hammering down the stock. Saunders's buying would be too carefully handled to send it shooting up in a hurry. And when Saunders got all through, according to the orders the partners had given him, they would own a mine that was absolutely worthless!

"As soon as we've got in the clear" —Henderson's chuckling tone came through the muffling curtain with new clearness— "we'll spring the news about the mine having petered out completely. Then maybe she won't smash! I tell you what, Cheadle! This manipulation is going to be investigated, all right; you run out and bring up some lunch, will you? While you're gone, locate somebody you can trust, and have him spread the news that Apex Crown has petered out. Have it done at exactly two o'clock.

"Dickover will get the wires hot in five minutes, and you can arrange for him to discover the truth at Tonopah, Wire somebody there that the mine's busted and you are in Frisco."

"What's the matter with your own men doing all this?" growled Cheadle suspiciously.

"I'm doing the operating; I'll be the first man under investigation. Can't afford to take the risk, even to put a hole in Dickover's bank-account, blast him! But you can do it. Put on those glasses and that line of talk you can assume, and you'll get by. Don't you know any one you can trust?"

There was a moment of silence, then a chair was scraped back.

"I know a guy," returned Cheadle, "I guess it can be done safe enough. Two o'clock, eh?"

Cheadle came through the curtained doorway and, without glancing. at the prostrate Bowen, opened a wall-cabinet, took out his thick spectacles, and donned them. Then, as he took a step, he stumbled over Bowen's feet. Catching at the wall to save himself from falling, he dislodged the wall-cabinet and sent a shower of toilet articles over the floor.

Mr. Oliver Hazard Perry Cheadle cursed heartily and fluently. He even kicked the man from Tonopah in the ribs, but Bowen merely grunted and kept his eyes closed. Then Cheadle passed back into the next room.

"Two o'clock, eh?" he repeated surlily. "Sure we'll be clear by then?"

"Leave that part of it to me," said Henderson sharply. "We'll be clear. But be sure to have the trick turned at two sharp! That'll give Dickover plenty of time to find the report is true, and to unload. I want to see him get a crimp, the big toad!"

"Then at two she busts," said Cheadle.

"And hurry back here with the lunch. I'm getting hungry."

Cheadle grunted and a door slammed behind him.

Bowen lay motionless, his head twisted so that he could idly survey the wreckage caused by Cheadle 's stumble. This final move of Henderson's had removed his last hope. At three o'clock that afternoon Apex Crown would be known to all men as worthless— and the Apex Crown would be the property of Bob Bowen, of Tonopah!

But it was Alice Ferguson that Bowen was chiefly thinking. Whose fault but his that her little patrimony would be wiped out?

8: The Smash Of Apex Crown

SLOWLY anger uprose again in Bowen's soul. After all, the disaster that was upon him and upon Alice Ferguson was not primarily his own fault! It was due to the machinations, the fraud and trickery of Henderson.

"We're simply meshed in the net he has woven," thought Bowen, " And there's no way out! Great Jehu, if I could only get my hands free for five minutes!'

But he could not, and gave up the instinctive effort. His hands and feet were numb and swollen by reason of the tight lashings. The thirst that racked him was unbearable. He kept silent, however. Ask Henderson for a drink? Beg Henderson for mercy? Not yet!

Time passed.

Through the curtain Bowen could hear Henderson answering the telephone, but not in any manner to supply further information. He knew that the man was smoking, could smell the tobacco: it wakened the craving within him and intensified his thirst. Once Charley called up, and presumably demanded permission to sell, for Henderson answered savagely:

"I told you once before that I'd give orders! Now shut up. You sell when I tell you to sell, and not before. Get that? I'm giving the orders in this deal, and not you! You tell me when that stock climbs to ninety— what? Never mind your predictions; I know what's doing! When it touches ninety, call me, that's all. But don't you dare sell until I give you the word!"

Again the scratch of a match, followed by silence. Bowen's eyes were caught by a metallic glint on the threadbare carpet, two feet from his head— just about opposite his elbow. He stared at it for a moment without recognition. Then suddenly his gray eyes widened a little.

The object had been spilled with the other things from the wall-cabinet. It was rusty and had evidently been long discarded, forgotten. It was the slender steel blade of a safety-razor!

"Great Jehu!" muttered Bowen. "Great Jehu! If I only could!"

He was lying half on one side, half on his arms, which were bound behind his back. Carefully he moved his numbed limbs, moved his aching body. Inch by inch he moved it, sidling up and along until he judged that his lashed hands were about level with the bit of rusted steel. Gropingly he felt for it. A moment later his searching fingers came in contact with the razorblade.

Bowen relaxed, a deep breath of achievement swelling his chest. He lay quiet, half fearing lest his movements had been heard by Henderson. But no sign came from the other room.

As the possibilities unfolded, a desperate inspiration flashed upon Bowen's brain. After all, there was still a chance, more than a chance, of retrieving the disaster!

That bit of rusted steel placed hope between his hands! How late it was, he could not tell, but it must be long past noon, although Cheadle had not yet returned with the luncheon. Bowen smiled at the thought. If he could but free his feet and wrists! If he could but down those two scoundrels! If he could but telephone to Gus Saunders before two o'clock! Then the market for Apex Crown would be at its height, and Saunders could unload before the crash !

Bowen had dreamed of millions, when he believed the mine to be good. Now that it as a question of at best getting out from under, there was still hope of cleaning up a tidy fortune. But he would have to phone Gus Saunders before two o'clock!

Cautiously holding the edged blade in his almost senseless fingers. Bob Bowen fumbled with it for the cord that bound his wrists behind him. He could not make the keen blade reach. Just as he realized this, just as he realized that the job was not going to be so easy as it had seemed, he heard Cheadle enter the adjoining room.

"Done it, Henderson!" Cheadle apparently set down a basket, for there was a rattle of dishes. "There's lunch."

"You fixed it all right? Sure it's safe?" demanded the eager voice of Henderson.

"Safe as shootin', pardner! At two o'clock the storm busts, and Lord help us if we ain't somewheres else! "

"Leave that to me. What's this you got to drink— milk! You're a nice one, you are! Bringing me milk to drink—

"It's all you get. I mean that you shall keep a clear head to-day, pardner. No booze in yours until we've cashed in! Now lay out the grub. Have you looked at him in there? Has he waked up yet?"

"Don't know and don't care," grunted Henderson.

Cheadle came striding through the doorway. Forewarned, Bowen closed his hand over the bit of rusty steel in his palm. He looked up at Cheadle, who bent over and examined his bonds.

"Don't I get something to eat?" hoarsely demanded Bowen. "Give me a drink at least—"

"You shut up." Cheadle bestowed upon him a gentle kick. "You're blamed lucky to get off at all!"

Cheadle strode back to his partner in crime. Henderson began retailing reports that had come over the phone, but now Bowen paid no heed to the mumble of voices.

Working frantically, Bowen strove to reach his wrist-cords with the edged steel. At first he found it practically impossible. Twice the blade slipped in his numbed fingers and struck into his flesh. Fearful lest he sever a wrist-artery, he took more caution.

At length he got a grip that held upon the thin steel, and to his keen joy felt the tip of the blade touch a cord. Slowly it bit through. A slight tug told him that the strand had parted. Dropping the blade, he worked his arms until the severed cord loosened. Scarce sensible of the motion, scarce able to make his brain control the congested members, Bowen drew his arms from beneath him.

He was free— but for the moment, helpless. He could not move his hands; they were swollen and purpled, quite without feeling.

For a while he lay, content to slowly chafe the life back into his fingers. With an effort he sat up, found the razor-blade where he had dropped it, and freed his ankles. Still he could do no more than strive to bring the banished blood back into hands and feet. Motion intensified his thirst, which seemed burning the throat out of him! But he made no sound.

Slowly strength and control came back to his hands. He clenched them with a grim smile; they were pretty good hands after all— quite equal to the work that lay ahead! And suddenly, as he cautiously tried to gain his feet without noise, he heard a chair scraped back in the adjoining room.

"Confound that grapefruit!" It was Henderson who spoke, with irritation. "I'm going across the hall to the toilet and wash up. Call me if Charley rings up."

"Sure," responded Cheadle.

The door slammed after Henderson. The next instant Bowen heard the footsteps of Cheadle crossing the floor— toward him.

Catlike, the man from Tonopah came to his feet, looked swiftly around for a weapon. He could not trust his fists— yet! There was too much at stake. He must call Gus Saunders before two o'clock!

As the dumpy figure of Cheadle parted the curtains, Bowen caught up a small foot-stool — the first object to hand— and hurled it. The hassock took Cheadle in the side of the head and knocked him sprawling. Before he could recover, Bowen was upon him; and, without any mercy, struck two blows that knocked out the fat little mining man.

Moving rapidly, Bowen caught up the cords that had bound him, tied Cheadle hand and foot, and rolled the inert body under the bed. Barely had he finished and come erect, when Henderson returned to the adjoining room.

"Nothing doing yet, eh?" he sang out.

The telephone rang, and saved Bowen from making any response. Henderson took the message and repeated his former commands.

"Well, didn't I tell you the stock was kiting up? Now you wait for my order to sell, and keep your ear close to the phone! I want no monkey business at the last moment."

Henderson banged up the receiver. "She's up to ninety, Cheadle!" he called exultantly. " What 'd I tell you, eh? It's just ten minutes of two now. In five minutes I'll give Charley orders to sell— "

"I'll bet you two to one you don't," said Bowen, stepping into the room.

He had thought to take Henderson by surprise; to down the thunderstruck man without a struggle. But he had far underestimated Dickover's former agent. Henderson had spread upon a small table which bore the telephone, the dishes borne in by Cheadle. Without a second's hesitation, Henderson picked up a heavy restaurant coffee-cup and hurled it fair and square at the face of his opponent.

Caught athwart the forehead by the missile, Bowen almost crumpled up. Henderson was upon him like a wildcat, beating at him with another cup. Bowen could do no more than clinch.

Locked in each other's arms, the two men reeled back and forth, smashed over chairs, went crashing into the wall with terrific impact. The shock separated them. Henderson's arm swept up; the heavy crockery cracked down upon Bowen's head, struck full against the blood-black bruise Cheadle had given him, and shivered to pieces.

Under that terrific blow. Bob Bowen felt himself going, and going fast. He lunged forward and caught Henderson about the body: A final great wave of strength surged into him, and he threw Henderson over his hip— an old wrestling trick. He saw the man drive head first into the wall— and saw no more. For the second time, his knees were loosened and black darkness engulfed his soul.

When he wakened again, Bowen sat up and looked around dazedly, wondering at the deadly ache in his head. He remembered by slow degrees. He saw Henderson lying across the room, lying in a limp mass. He heard the man's stertorous breathing. It was the deep, hard breathing of a man badly hurt.

Slowly Bob Bowen came to his feet. Staggering, he came to the table, clutched, the bottle of milk, poured the revivifying fluid down his throat. A deep sigh of satisfaction burst from him— and then he remembered. Two o'clock! How long had he lain senseless?

With a groan, Bowen flung himself across the room to Henderson's side. His fingers trembling, he drew out Henderson's watch. It was two forty!

A moment later, Bowen seized the telephone and gave the number of Gus Saunders. He waited, frantic with suspense, until he heard the broker's voice. There might yet be hope! Cheadle might have made mistakes.

"You, Bob? Good Lord!" Saunders's tone sent his heart down. We've been looking all over town for you—"

"What's your last report on Apex Crown?" cried Bowen hoarsely. "Has it broken—"

"Broke all to smash at two o'clock. Last report was eight cents here and going down fast. Miss Ferguson is here. You'd better come down and settle up—"

Bowen slammed the receiver on the hook. "Oh, hell!" he said simply. "Well, we'll face the music!"

9: Feminine Instinct

BOB BOWEN sat in the private office of Gus Saunders at three fifteen. On the way down-town he had stopped at a doctor's office and had had his head bound up. As he himself put it, a couple of days would see him able to butt into another wall.

"And I've sure butted it this time," he said with assumed cheerfulness, as he concluded his story. In the eyes of Alice Ferguson he read quick sympathy— sympathy, and something else that set his pulses to leaping. But he refused to meet her eyes.

"I sure have," he went on. " Where I made my mistake was in thinking that Henderson was— was— well, that he was something less than Henderson! My one consolation is that I knocked him out so effectually that he never got word to the unknown Charley to sell out. When the news of the real condition of the Apex Crown got abroad, and the market busted all to nothing, Henderson was still rocked in the cradle of the deep. It makes me feel better to think that that skunk went down with us!

"But I'm only sorry for— for your sake, Miss Ferguson. I'm not worrying about my own money; but yours—"

"Mine is safe," said the girl, gazing at him with shining eyes.

Bowen sat up a trifle straighter. "What?"

"I have a confession to make, Mr. Bowen— a happy confession," said the girl, earnestly, leaning forward. "Mr. Saunders had been trying to get in touch with you all morning and had failed. No one knew where you were. At noon I came down here and got reports. Then the stock began to go up and up. It reached ninety, and was still climbing!

"To tell you the truth, I was afraid. Why? I can't say, except that it was just a feeling inside of me. There was no word from you; all sorts of rumors were flying around about Apex Crown, and— and Mr. Saunders said that the stock was being so rottenly manipulated that there might be an investigation! That frightened me more than anything. So I told Mr. Saunders to sell the whole thing—"

Saunders came to his feet with a whoop of delight.

"Feminine instinct, by George!" he shouted, his repressed mirth breaking out in a roar of laughter. "Bob, old man, she made me sell out the whole blamed bunch around ninety! So help me, she did, and we did!"

Bowen stared from one to the other, staggered. He could not at first grasp the reality of what had taken place.

"You're not trying just to brace me up—"

"Rats!" Saunders clapped him on the shoulders happily. "Not a bit of it. I'm a cold-blooded business man, and I don't give a whoop about bracing you up! As a matter of fact, I did not get control of the stock after all. Henderson's holdings never did come on the market, you know, except in part. So when I saw how things were going, I let Miss Ferguson boss the job. And it's blamed lucky I did!"

"Great Jehu!" said Bowen slowly. "Then— then we're not broke after all—"

" Not by two hundred thousand or so! Which, I judge, our friend Dickover pays—"

Bowen came to his feet, a trifle unsteadily.

"Gus," he said, his voice solemn, but a twinkle in his gray eyes, "this can only happen once in a lifetime. Thank Heaven it happened in my lifetime! Now, see here. It was Miss Ferguson who saved the bacon to-day, and I want to tell you that she's too good a partner to lose. Would you mind making this a real private office for a few minutes?"

With a blank look that swiftly changed to a grin of comprehension, Mr. Saunders left.

Bowen turned to Alice Ferguson, and at sight of her rapidly crimsoning countenance the old boyish smile came to his lips.

"Hold on!" he exclaimed. "Don't say anything for about two minutes, please! I'm all done with business. I don't want to hear the word again— between us. When I'm talking about partnership like I want to talk, I mean something else than business! Maybe you'll think that I'm pretty sudden, but I tell you that I never met any one like you before, and I never will again. And I want you to listen, because—"

And Alice Ferguson listened.

__________________

2: The Blood of Kings

The New Magazine (UK) Jan 1926

"THERE'S a mystery in it," said Sparks, "and I hate mysteries— when they touch my pocketbook. This one has touched it mighty hard, I can tell you."

The soft-footed Chinese boy set drinks on the table between us. Sparks signed the chit, though we were both club members, it was his treat. Some garrison officer, in magnificent mess jacket, crossed the verandah, and a motor horn blared from the drive.

"Chin-chin," said Sparks, lifting his drink.

"If it's a mystery, why not get a detective?" I said.

"I'm a lawyer." Sparks only grunted, and fumbled in his cigarette case. He was a big, hard man. Sparks, head of the Inter-island Trading Company. A self-made man, genial, prosaic, merciless to all inefficiencies, graduate of a hard school; no foolishness in him— sympathy enough, but no trace of sentiment. Sparks judged by results only, and was a severe judge.

"I made a mistake, and I'm paying for it." said Sparks, when his cigarette was alight. "I sent a chap named Cochrane to take charge of our station at Kuala Bat, up the Perak coast. He was the only man available when we got the concession last year, and it looked like a big thing nobody could fumble. Instead of panning out big, it has cost us thousands, one way and another, and I'm tired of it."

"Never beard of the place," I said. "A tide-mouth, by the name?"

"A kind outside a river mouth," and Sparks nodded. "I want you to go up there for me with full authority and raise the lid."

"Thanks for the implied compliment— butt why are you tired of it? You're hardly the sort to hang on long enough to grow tired."

Sparks winced slightly, for this flicked him on the sensitive side of himself. "That beggar Cochrane has played me like a fool," he confessed. "So has Tanjan, a Malay chap. I trusted Tanjan, made him Cochrane's assistant. They've had me fair, I tell you."

"Rare bird, then," and I chuckled. Anybody who could "do" Rudolph Sparks had to get up early in the morning.

"Who's Cochrane?"

"Nobody much; but little men are often the biggest inside. That's where I fell down. He's a little man. Soft-spoken, quiet, well-poised— too devilish well poised! Instead of being strong, he's weak. His character is nil. He has slipped all down the line. Want to take on the job?"

"I'm listening," was my evasive reply. "Why should you have a concession up there?''

"Tin," said Sparks, lowering his voice. "Legitimate dodging of the export duty. You remember the Frenchman, Bonn, who was busted after the war? Well, his concession, it proved, was independent of the Government export tax— there were some clauses in it that gave him a free hand. We discovered  them after we bought over the concession."

"And you've lost money on the thing?" I said, incredulous.

"You may well sniff," said Sparks bitterly. "Hang me if I can figure out what's wrong! Cochrane can't, get any tin shipments for his island post— strikes up country at the mines, and that big Chinese dredging firm went smash, and so forth. It isn't just bad luck, though: it's sheer weakness, inefficiency!  I can't get anything coherent out of Cochrane by mail. He just slides me along smoothly. Meantime, other folks are shipping tin out of the country, and paying for the privilege."

"Boycott against you, something of that, order?"

"Not a bit of it. There's even a tin mine on the island— not much of a one, though— and it's gone to pot, too. Tanjan's a good man, but I can get nothing out of him except mysterious rot that means nothing. I'd like you to poke in there and let on you're a tourist or anything but what you are, and nose into the thing. Well, there's five hundred quid in it for you as a retainer if you take the job. More according to time."

"Not so fast," I told him. "You've hinted at mystery, but where is it?"

Sparks flipped a letter across the table to me.

"I've written Tanjan three times," be growled. "There's my answer." I unfolded the single sheet. The writing was not in Arabic, but in Roman characters, the signature alone being in the Arabic. Nor could I blame Sparks for not getting the gist of these short, pithy sentences:—

"I who am but a beggar, serve a rajah. The business can wait. Belum Sudah."

"I don't get the hang of those two last words," grumbled Sparks. "If the fool wanted to write, why not write English? He's educated. He ought to know I'm not well up in Malay. What are the two last words?"

"A slight contraction," I said. "Meaning that the work isn't finished yet. However, your Tanjan is from up north, I see. He says 'patek nen fakir'— 'I who am but a beggar'. You'll never hear nen used for yang around these parts. I should say he'd sent this note off in a hurry, irritated by your letters, not caring much what came of it, but careful not to say anything definite. Who's the rajah in the case?"

"Blessed if I know," said Sparks. "None around there to my knowledge. Personally I think Tanjan has taken to drugs. He'd never dare send me such a contemptuous message ordinarily. And here's the rest of the confounded mystery— nobody by this name was ever heard of around here, much less in Cochrane's company."

He dug into his inside jacket pocket and produced a large envelope scaled with some coat of arms in red wax. It was addressed to John Sobieski, care of J. T. Cochrane, gave the Inter-island Company, Singapore. It bore several Polish stamps and a Cracow postmark, and was embossed in the corner with Polish words I could not read.

"Is your man a Pole, then?" I asked.

"Him? Pure Scotch with a tincture of Cockney." And Sparks sniffed. "If you take the job, you can deliver it to him. Steamer heading north to-morrow noon can drop you at Kuala Bat. I'll send full authority to act for me around to your office in the morning. What say?"

"You're on," I responded.

ii.

MY STEAMER was a big coaster and could nowhere near make Kuala Bat. We lay some three miles off and waited. In the strong afternoon sunlight my prismatics brought up the island clearly.  Two boats' were putting out. One was a native prau, piled with fresh fruits, the other a cutter manned by natives, with a white, figure in the stern. I gazed with interest at Cochrane as his cutter leaned over to the afternoon breeze and approached us.

He was sailing her well, obviously he loved to urge and pull of the boat, the rush and thrust of the waves. A Jacob's ladder had been wiped clean and lowered. Cochrane brought his boat in beneath it, the sail was run down, and he came up and over the rail. There was no time to lose, as the captain wanted to be on his way and said so. I came up to them, and was introduced. Cochrane smiled and gave me a quick grip and a straight look.

"Visitors are rare here," he said to me.

"You're from Mr. Sparks, perhaps?"

"Yes," I responded. He showed no confusion nor embarrassment, but nodded quietly.

"Just the one bag? Right. I'll take it. Have a care as you get in the boat— quite a big swell. Can I wangle any newspapers out of you, cap'n?"

I went on down the ladder and made the boat safely, and as we drove in towards the island I studied Cochrane. There on the ship he had been quiet, poised, controlled; now, busy and intent upon the wind and the rush of waves and the long hissing surges shoving us onward, he stood revealed—all alive, vibrant, every sense keyed up and joying in each thrust of the steering oar.

The island loomed higher ahead. I got out my glasses and examined it attentively. A miniature railroad, I judged, served the tin mine Sparks had said was on the island. It could not be much of a mine, since the population was scanty, yet the tiny steel tracks glittered brightly as though kept in use. The godowns, however, were empty. This scarcely agreed with Sparks's declaration that nothing had been shipped from the station— either goods from upriver or from the island itself.

On the wharf to greet us stood a Malay, alone. He was unusually tall, and instead of wearing a bright sarong like, the other natives, he wore European. whites, with a scarlet sash about his waist, in which was thrust a kris. His white skull-cap showed that he had made the Mecca pilgrimage. Beneath it his dish-like features were dark, composed, rather proud.

A movement drew my glasses to the bungalow, above. There on its verandah, surrounded by a compound of flowers, was a black figure— a woman. I saw only this much, with a glimpse of her white face, when she turned and vanished inside. Did Cochrane have a wife, then? Sparks would have mentioned it.

"Welcome to Kuala Bat," said Cochrane, and held his hand to steady rue. "We can make you comfortable, I think?"

As I stepped to the wharf he addressed Tanjan in Malay. "Is all done as we ordered?"

Tanjan made another salaam.

"I have attended to all as you ordered, tuan-ku." I stared at this, as well I might; also, he had used the word "patek" for the first person singular, a term rigidly restricted to use when addressing royalty. Not used in mockery, either, for the brown man was extremely respectful. Perhaps Sparks was right. His brain had been touched.

Cochrane set out with me. Tanjan following with my bags.

"It's getting late. Well, you can get settled down, and then we'll have a drink. Comfortable place here, to make up for its being... rather lonely. You'll stay until the regular boat comes along next week, of course?"

I nodded. "If I may."

"May?" Cochrane laughed. "My dear fellow. you're a blessing to us!"

"You might change your mind," I said with meaning, "if you understand me―"

"No," and his voice was sober, restrained. "I understand— but no. You're the one who doesn't understand.  It was a blow when I saw you. I thought Sparks would come himself. I was all ready to have it out with him."

"Well! I'm glad we won't have any row." So he had expected Sparks in person and was ready. I kept my month shut and thought hard. This little man was no weakling, no coward. And he was clever. It was up to me to watch myself .

My host did not mention the woman, though must have known I had glimpsed her. As we rune up to the bungalow I heard the thrumming of a petrol engine; this, he explained. brought up water from the creek to the house and compound. The latter proved a gorgeous place, massed with flowers of all sorts, and a gardener in scarlet sarong gave us a salaam as we passed to the stern.

"This place used to belong to a Frenchman named Bonn— you know?" he said, and I nodded. "Bonn went broke, or rather was broken, and put a bullet through his head. It's quite an ugly story. I'll tell you about it later."

A queer ring to his voice warned me, and I said nothing. He pointed to the wide verandah. "Sparks sent me up here to lake charge after Bonn's death last. year. Bonn did himself well, eh? A fine little place. Sank a lot of money in it. Bonn was a confiding sort of man, by all accounts, the sort who'd take a man's word as gospel and not demand a bond. You never knew him?"

"Never heard of him even," I replied. "A friend of yours?"

"No, never heard of him myself until I came here."

I was puzzled by his manner. He led me in through the bungalow— it was large, well built, and handsomely done up— and showed me into a fine bedroom. Tanjan set down my bag, a bath was ready drawn, and I was left alone.

Thirty minutes afterwards I strolled out on the verandah, wondering a little at the elegance of the house— almost luxury. I had just lighted a cigarette when Cochrane appeared— and with him the black-clad woman. "Ah! I thought you'd be out here," he exclaimed.

"Fine breeze, eh? By the way, I'd like to present you to Mrs Bonn— the widow of Charles Bonn, you know―"

iii

IT WAS, to me, a queer meal served us in the dining room— odd both in things and persons around. Cochrane was not in the least awkward or embarrassed. Naturally, all my interest was centred upon the woman, so unexpectedly found here. I know Sparks was quite ignorant of her presence, for certainly he would have mentioned it. And I wondered. By guarded queries, for I sensed keen antagonism, it presently appeared that she had been here ever since Cochrane came— that is, ever since the Inter-island Company took over the concession and property front Charles Bonn, her husband.

However, she had offered him no apparent opposition, for they were on excellent terms. I was a little suspicious here, to tell the truth, yet quite without reason. Nothing familiar showed between them, only a cheerful friendliness. She spoke English fluently.

"Madame Bonn has been of great help to me," said Cochrane, perhaps scenting my thoughts. "Without her I could have done little with the place."

"Have you done very much?" I queried, with bland irony. He chuckled.

"A good deal more than you'd think, upon my word! Show you later on after dinner."

She was faintly amused— everything about her deserved the same adjective, I thought. She scarcely spoke. Like all French women, she ran to nose, though not obtrusively. She was a very demure little woman, all black and white— dead black hair, dead white face, carmined lips. Most undistinguished, one would say, almost without character; no great strength in her lines, and to all appearance a colourless little widow.

Her eyes told a different story. They were sharp grey under black brows, and with heavy lids. I could sense the sharp brain of Madame Bonn reaching and prying, trying, to read my thoughts, appraising me to herself. Here, I thought, might be the key to the mastery troubling Sparks. And in this thought  was far  deeper truth than I could realize.

Coffee was served on the verandah. For a space Cochrane and I sat alone in silence, but finally Cochrane tossed the end of his cheroot out among the darkened flowers, and spoke.

"Do you want to tackle business tonight?"

"As you wish," I replied.  "There's time."

"None like the present. Want to see the books alone, or let them back up my words?"

"The human equation seem to enter into this affair rather largely," and my words were dry enough. "Let the books wait on demand. You're not a liar."

Cochrane laughed a little.

"I was tempted to be one," he said, "until I got acquainted with you. I'd like to have sent you back with an ear-full of lies, to bring Sparks here and get the truth. He'd get it. You're not like him. You're a decent chap; and I'm sorry to meet you on an inimical basis."

This, of all things, was the last attitude I had expected him to take.

"Why accent the enmity?" I demanded.

"It's not personal," he rejoined, his cheroot-tip glowing and glowing. "Sparks sent, you to look into things, of course?"

"That's all right — you're helpless to interfere now, for my work's about done here. You noticed the godowns were empty? Only last week I got nil a tendering big shipment— stuff had been piling up here the last month." Cochrane laughed a little. "I've done plenty," he said. "Would you like to hear about Charles Bonn?"

"If you like. It's well worth going into. Bonn was a Frenchman, born out here. His father had a couple of good tin mines— open faced— up country. When the war broke out, Bonn was a youngster, wealthy, everything before him. He went back to France and served throughout the war. While he was away, everybody looted him— chiefly the Inter-island people. He came back with mighty little left out of the wreck brought his wife with him."

"Bonn was a fine chap, straight as a die by all accounts, but trusting. About the only thing left him was this island concession— very valuable in the right hands. He built a fine place here for his wife; you've seen something of it already. The little tin mine back in those naked hills was a bonanza, and little by little he began to get his affairs into shape. Then they began to go bad again. The Inter-island people went after him, and Sparks sent in a confidential man to put him out of business— a slick worker. This chap got into Bonn's good graces, played friend, and deliberately wrecked him. It was a rotten affair. I can tell you. Mrs. Bonn was away in hospital when most of it happened. She came back, saw through the chap, and kicked him out— but the harm was done. Bonn was wrecked, and shot himself."

"Bad story," I commented, "if true; but you see, I know Sparks."

"Would you put such work past him?"

Being a lawyer, and knowing Rudolph Sparks, I preserved a discreet silence on this direct query.

"Sparks," I countered, "is merciless in business relations. On the other hand, his word needs no written backing. He always tells the truth."

"So Bonn thought," said Cochrane grimly.

"I'd not believe for a moment." I went on, "that Sparks would deliberately send a man up here to wreck Bonn treacherously. Wreck him in business, of course— and without scruple as to means. But not as you suggest."

"Excuse me a moment," said Cochrane, as though accepting my dictum. "We might have a drink, and I keep the liquor locked up." He slipped away into the house.

I began to have a very faint suspicion of what the talk was coming to, yet the actual truth was far beyond me. Presently one of the Malays came out and set a small table in the glow from the lighted window. He went back, and then returned with siphon and glasses, and departed again. Cochrane came along presently with a decanter. He set it on the table, then took a small flashlight from his pocket, switched it on, and handed it to me. "Take this, will you?" he said calmly.

"Now. if you'll read―"

I accepted a sheet of paper from him and held it against the ray of light. It was a letter-head of the lnter-island Trading Company, from the private office of Rudolph Sparks. It was addressed to a man— let him be nameless here. He was the agent Sparks had sent up to wreck Charles Bonn. It was curt and to the point; in two brief paragraphs:—

Your report received and approved. When you return from Kuala Bat your pay-check will be waiting for you as arranged.

Wreck Bonn financially, personally, morally— all ways.

Rudolph Sparks

A damning thing. I scrutinized it very closely— genuine paper, genuine signature, initialled by Sparks's private secretary— no chance of mistake here. Every man makes mistakes, and when Rudolph Sparks dictated the second paragraph of this letter he had made probably the biggest mistake of his career. I could sense the whole thing now, accurately enough although dimly.

"As representing Sparks," I said slowly, "you know I ought to destroy this letter."

"I'm safe in trusting you," said Cochrane. "You're a gentleman."

"Unfortunately for Sparks, yes." He took the letter again, folded and pocketed. it.

"You recognise the truth of my story about Bonn, after reading this?"

"The evidence is indubitable," I said, "Mind telling me where you, got it?"

"Not a bit," he returned with frankness. "I came along here a fortnight or so after Bonn shot himself. Tanjan came with me— Sparks found him footloose, knew he had a good record, and employed him. An excellent man. Tanjan; obeys me."

"More than that," I said.

"Yes, more than that. Well, Mrs. Bonn— Madame Bonn, really— was pretty well broken up. After kicking out Sparks's agent she had found this letter in his room; the fool had thrown it into a paper basket. Now you mustn't misjudge either her or me. If you know Frenchwomen you know they'll act like men— sentiment for the one, practical commonsense for all others. And at the present moment I've a girl waiting for me in Glasgow."

"Go ahead, go ahead," I said. "You and I understand each other pretty well, old man."

"Right. Well, the more we became acquainted the more I realized what a rotten deal she had met with in life— thanks to Sparks and the Inter-island. She was practically penniless, for everything was grabbed. The papers were legal, but the thing behind the papers was damnable. And being in full charge here, as I whipped affairs into shape I saw where I could right some part of the wrong that had been done. I couldn't give the woman's husband back to her, but I could give back to her a good deal of the stolen money— stolen, that is, ethically."

I felt a trifle shaky at hearing this.

"In the past months I've done very well indeed with the place," went on Cochrane, quite calmly, even complacently. "I've turned over thousands of pounds' worth of business; got a lot of stuff from upriver for shipment, most of it consigned to the Inter-island: I made arrangements for everything to be consigned to Bonn instead. You know, by the contract he signed, all consignments to him were to go through in his name— a clever joker. Sparks's  agent knew there would be no more of him, savvy? Well; I changed this little point. Instead of the money going into the Inter-island coffers it went elsewhere. Mrs. Bonn has touched every cent. of it. I'm not one penny embezzler on my own 'account,' and she has even arranged to return my salary from Sparks— I'm giving her my services, in other words."

This astonishing confession came from the man easily, naturally, as though he were describing an ordinary process of business.

"In very plain words, if you'll forgive them," I said gently, "you've betrayed your employers and have stolen from them."

"No," said Cochrane resolutely, as though he had long since weighed and discarded this accusation. "First, I've undertaken to reimburse this widow for what was actually, if legally, stolen from her. I've done it illegally, I'd be sure admitted! But my conscience is clear in this regard. Every cent of my salary will be refunded before I leave here."

"I'm not worried about your personal responsibility," I said dryly. "I'm representing the Inter-island. Look at it from our standpoint, Cochrane. Regardless of ethical right or wrong, you've embezzled our funds— some thousands of pounds, eh? That means Court and prison."

Cochrane laughed — a little laugh of sheer amusement, tinged with confidence.

"Ah, but does it?" he said. "I'm perfectly willing to go into Court. I'm giving my future address when I leave. I've nothing to hide."

"Eh?" I demanded. "You actually say you're willing to go into Court

"Certainly," he broke in. "Certainly I am. As a lawyer— are you?"

I saw him tap his pocket, where the letter from Sparks reposed. And the ghastly surety of his position staggered me. He might well be confident! Once given publicity, this letter would absolutely ruin Rudolph Sparks, if not the Inter-island Company itself. Yes, Cochrane might well be amused!

iv

SOMEHOW I felt sorry for Cochrane. Idealist as the man was, his position held a certain loftiness, amounting almost to nobility. Sitting here in the middle of the ocean, I could visualize his viewpoint clearly enough.

"I don't think this matter would go into Court as it stands now," I admitted frankly. "But first, suppose you let me know your plans, if you have any."

"Willingly," replied Cochrane. "Bonn had a good many friends upcountry, you know— native and white. They've turned a bit of trade in this direction. The final lot of stuff is coming down tomorrow, I expect. I'll have quite a bit of tin— it's been smelted on the mainland, at the Kajong workings— from my own mine here, and more from upriver. Then there should be a good miscellaneous lot. Say, a couple of thousand pounds' value in all."

"Whew! Sparks was right," I commented dryly. "He is, in business. The place is rich. Well, a coaster comes in day after tomorrow and takes out the lot— takes me and Tanjan and Mrs. Bonn, too."

"Tanjan's in on the game, is he?" I asked. "Queer such a man would se unfaithful to his salt."

"He takes his salt from me,'' said Cochrane. "I've rather confided in him, you know— but never mind. The point is, we all clear out the day after tomorrow. Madame Bonn goes to Europe, and I may follow, or may not. Depends on what action Sparks wants to take."

"Do you mean," I said gravely, "that you intend to blackmail him further?"

"Do you think I do?"

"No," was my honest reply.

He laughed in the darkness. "You win. I had intended going to Singapore and effecting a settlement face to face with Sparks. No need of that, since you're here. I've made not a penny out of this job, remember. Guarantee me and Mrs. Bonn indemnity for all that's past, and the letter is yours."

Cheap at the price, I reflected.

"I've no authority to give you any such guarantee," I returned cautiously. "I'd want to examine that letter by daylight, though I'm convinced it's genuine enough. On the strength of it I'd advise the company to accept your terms unconditionally. I am confident my advice will be followed. More than this, of course, I can't promise."

"That's enough," said Cochrane promptly. "It's settled. Well, here's luck and a good night's sleep to you!"

We put down the nightcap and he took me to my room, where a lamp was lighted, and we were saying good night when I suddenly halted him. My memory had picked up something that I wanted to ask about Tanjan.

"I don't understand his use of language," I said. "He wrote Sparks that he was serving a king. He uses court language when speaking to you. What does it mean?"

Cochrane hesitated and appeared oddly embarrassed. "I said I had confided in Tanjan," he returned slowly. "He's simple and direct, unused to the European world. You are just the opposite. Where he accepts a fact as literal and beyond question, your complex brain would term it the hallucination of an unbalanced man."

"H'm!" I said. "Hardly, if you stated the fact."

He coloured slightly with pleasure.

"Thank you," he said. "The fact is, then, that I am a king, by right of birth."

Gravely said. For the second time this evening the man staggered me.

"But you're Scotch, or English," I countered. '"Therefore you could only be king―"

"Of England," he finished for me. "Yes. And that's it. Well, I'll tell you about it later on, if you like— I'm not anxious to bring it all up, though. It's nothing to boast of. Good night!"

MORNING BROUGHT fair certainty of Cochrane's sanity. I was awake early, when he showed his head into my room and waved a towel at me. "We're going down for an early dip— we've a safe place. Want to come along? I've an extra suit that may be a bit small for you but will render you half-way decent―"

"You bet," I exclaimed. He flung a bathing suit at me. "We'll be on the verandah."

In five minutes I. joined him outside and found Madame Bonn with him. We bathed, spending a delicious half-hour in the cool of the morning, and then coming back to the house.

The Malays of the little village were of a different type from Tanjan and the two houseboys, being ordinary fishermen, and as we passed the village Cochrane called an order to them— something about the ore coming in today, and keeping a watch for the boats.

After breakfast the three of us, with Tanjan sitting beside us in the respectful manner of the East, settled down on the verandah, and faced the situation frankly. Thus Madame Bonn quite understood I would use my position to further the settlement on the terms already concluded, and yet I felt clearly a sharpened tension on her part— a watchful suspicious enmity. For some reason she was afraid of me, and I began to wonder why. Cochrane was just the opposite. During our talk some word flashed memory into my mind of the letter Sparks had given me to deliver. I rose, excused myself, and went to my room. The letter was packed in my bag. I got it out, and came back to the verandah.

"Sparks gave me this to deliver," I said, handing it to Cochrane. "I suppose yon know who the chap is."

His eyes widened, and then he stared at me over the envelope. "It's for me. And— I'm afraid to open it."

"For you?" I said. "But Sobieski―"

"Is my name." He smiled suddenly and leaned forward. "Did you never hear of the two Sobeieski brothers who came to England and Scotland in the last century and declared themselves lineal descendants of the Stuarts? Their claim was true enough, though they could not prove it because the proofs lay in Warsaw and the Russian Government refused any substantiation. This letter— well, I've taken my mother's name of Cochrane, for if I called myself Sobieski out here everyone would thing I'm a Pole. I'm not, though I speak Polish as part of my inheritance. This letter answers my appeal to the Polish Government. It will either substantiate my claim or— smash it."

He stared down at the letter, turning it over and over in his fingers. Tanjan, who had drunk in every word, sat stiffly. In the regard he bent upon Cochrane was a queer quality— it startled me. It was almost ironic, with a trace of contempt. And abruptly I had the impression of some drama here, some hidden play of forces about I knew nothing. Cochrane opened his letter and read it.

All three of us were watching him, but his face hardly changed—a contraction of the muscles, a slight smile, nothing more. Tanjan rose and came before Cochrane and salaamed, and then sat down again. Cochrane laughed, rather embarrassed.

"Well, that's ended! And here comes one of the villagers— I expect the boats are sighted from the peaks. Our promised consignment."

Cochrane rose.

"Well, I'll have to go on down and see to things. Tanjan, will you come along? In case I don't understand their dialect, I'll have need of you."

He turned to me with an apologetic gesture. "I'm not a very good hand at Malay, you know. "They say it's dead easy, yet somehow it never comes natural to me. See you later!"

He went lithely down the steps and across the compound, with Tanjan behind him. And for an instant the woman glancing after him, held derision in her grey eyes. Then she looked at me, caught my gaze, and smiled.

"If you'll excuse me I'll see about packing," she said, and tossed away her cigarette. "I've not put a thing in shape yet, and we're leaving tomorrow, you know."

With a cool nod she went into the house.  I took a fresh cheroot and looked at the gardener and a woman who came around the corner of the house together and stood in talk for a moment. Their words came to me clearly and made me forget about the cheroot in my hand.

v

"IT IS TRUE, oh son of my father," said the woman, tears in her voice. "He goes on the steamboat to-morrow and leaves me here. He has told me. He goes, and his brother goes, and Tanjan Hajji also."

The gardener looked up and saw me on the verandah and checked her.

"Come away and talk of these things in another place," he said. But I leaned forward and spoke from curiosity:— "Who is it that goes, then? Who is this woman's husband ?"

"An unworthy slave of the house, tuan," came the response, and the gardener led her away, angry that she should have brought her troubles to my ears. He sent her off down to the village in haste— an honest simpleton, this gardener.

I lighted my cheroot and reflected.

So the two houseboys were going also! It looked rather thick, this general clearing out. It all made me suspicious— of what? I could not say. Little things heap up and are not to be laid aside like big things. All sorts of little things here— the servants going, Tanjan's outward respect for Cochrane contrasted with his inward contempt, Madame Bonn's very singular attitude.

An hour must have passed while I was reflecting vainly on all these things and getting nowhere. Boats came into sight, large praus, rounding the corner of the island and coming in toward the wharf below. I left the verandah and strolled down the path to the beach, but kept in the shade. The morning sun was already hot, and I had no helmet. By the time I got to the water front the first boat was already tying up at the wharf and three others were following Cochrane had the entire village force at work, and cargo was being passed ashore and stowed in the godowns.

Seeing me, Cochrane left Tanjan to direct the work and came over to me. He was eager, laughing, vibrant with energy.

"Just why would Tanjan and the two houseboys want to go to Siam now?" I asked thoughtfully.

He gave me a flashing look.

"I asked the same question. Tanjan, I believe, is going into trading on his own up there, and the other two with him. What's the matter— does the affair still look astonishing to you?"

"It puzzles me," I admitted. "Not your end of it, but the whole business itself. Madame Bonn, for example, is a very peculiar woman."

"Conceded," said Cochrane with a nod. "Capable, though. By-the-way, you wanted to see the letter from Sparks— here. I've got it in my pocket. Give it back to me at tiffin, will you? I must hang on to it, naturally, until the settlement is signed up. See you later."

He thrust the letter at me and then went back to the godowns. This rash action of his suddenly opened my eyes, and I retraced my path to the bungalow very thoughtfully.

He laughed at Charles Bonn for having trusted people too much, yet here he calmly handed over to me the very letter on which he depended to keep himself out of prison! Reaching the compound, I encountered the gardener and halted.

"Tell me something," I said.

"Yes, tuan," he replied.

"How long have those two houseboys been here?"

"A long time, tuan," he answered. "Tuan Bonn brought Sahak down from Terengganu when he first came, here, and Busuk came a little while after."

"And which wants to leave his woman here?" I asked. "Your sister."

"Oh! That is Busuk, tuan," and he shook his head. "But he wants to take her. Tanjan Hajji says he cannot, and there is grief."

I went to the house, revolving this new item of information, yet still eluded by any tangible point of suspicion. As I mounted the steps Madame Bonn appeared, from inside the house.

"M. Cochrane is at the beach?" she asked in French.

I nodded.  "Yes. You want him?"

"Oh, no." Her grey eyes rested on me moment. "I have been thinking. Why would it not be better for him to go back to Singapore with you and arrange the settlement there? He would have nothing to fear, and it would be more satisfactory."

Something warned me— some subtle emanation from her brain.

"One of us," she went on, "must go to Bangkok with this shipment, and―"

"Well," I broke in, "suppose you let Cochrane go to Bangkok, then, and you come along to Singapore. That will avert any chance of quarrel and you can get a steamer direct for France there. It will be better all round, eh?"

Her eyes flashed.

"Not at all," she said. "The consignment goes in my name, and I must see to its delivery in person and make collections. Also, I shall stop with friends in Saigon for a week or so before going home. But if M. Cochrane could go with you―"

"Suppose," I said, looking into her eyes and smiling a little, "suppose I told you that I had discovered the whole affair— all of it?"

Alarm leaped in her eyes. "But we settled all that this morning— went over the whole affair.'

"Yes," I said, and nodded. "Over part of it, at least. Well, if you can arrange for Cochrane to accompany me back to Singapore it might be quite all right."

I went on into the house and from there glanced back. She was not gazing after me, but stood very motionless, almost rigid, as I had left her.

Tiffin came. To my astonishment, for I had been a little worried over my one remark, Madame Bonn was sweet as honey; she was acting now. acting with all of herself, and played her part well. Over the meal she flatly proposed to Cochrane that he accompany me to Singapore. I said nothing. Cochrane shrugged and assented casually in his frank and open manner.

"Perhaps it would be as well. Though I wish to avoid conflict with Sparks, I'm perfectly willing to tell him what I think of him to his face."

He glanced at me enquiringly. "Eh?"

"As you like," I said. "We'll try to avoid a row."

"Yes; I'll let you handle the matter, if you will. Satisfied about the letter?"

I smiled. "Haven't had a chance to look it over yet. Do you want it now?"

He made a gesture as if it were a matter of no importance, and began to speak of the unloading shipment on the beach.

Madame Bonn regarded me with slightly narrowed eyes. Did she suspect me of having designs on the letter, then? The covert suspicion and enmity of the woman would have been amusing had they not been so puzzling.

Tiffin over, Madame Bonn went back to her packing, Cochrane returned to the beach despite the heat, and I lolled lazily in the verandah shade. Busuk, the younger of the two brethren, as his name signified, was clearing the table when I beckoned to him. He came over. "Yes, tuan?"

"You are a faithful man," I said, not looking at him but staring out at the sea horizon. "You serve Madame Bonn, and rightly. Still, it might be you would prefer to remain here with your wife instead of leaving her and going to Bangkok."

"By Allah, tuan, I would!" he said quickly. He was not a clever man, this Busuk. "But I am ordered to go. Tanjan Hajji―" and he checked himself.

"Why should Tanjan Hajji give you orders?" I asked.

"Why not, tuan? In the old days he was master under Tuan Bonn."

Only with an effort did I repress my surprise. Tanjan here under Bonn! Another new point, and a startling one.

"Where is Tuan Bonn buried? I have not seen his grave."

"He left a chit asking that he be buried with his father, near Malacca Town. So we took him there. It was a journey."

This was next door to incredible. In such a climate one is buried quickly. Yet the man was speaking truth, or what he believed to be truth.

"Did you stay long in Malacca?" I asked casually.

"Only two days, tuan."

"And what did Madame Bonn buy here?"

"Allah knows! Some black clothes, and a comb for my wife, and one of those machines that writes words "

"A typewriter?" I asked swiftly. Where is it?"

"She did not keep it, tuan. It did not please her. Perhaps, if the tuan would ask. I might be allowed to remain here with my wife―"

"You may not," said the voice of Madame Bonn. "Get to your work."

When I turned to look she was gone again, silently as she had come. How much had the woman heard?

I shrugged and got out some letters. I had two from Sparks, emanating from his private office. Comparing them with Cochrane's letter I found the latter indubitably genuine.

vi

WELL, I had the secret— held it here in my hand, after all. For perhaps half an hour I sat there, tugging at the loose strings, before realization came to me, swiftly verified. And with the discovery came the staggering question of how to utilize it. A bungle at this stage would be fatal to all.

Madame Bonn did not appear again. Presently Busuk came across the verandah on some errand, and I called him. He looked scared and hesitant.

"Go and tell Tuan Cochrane I wish to see him," I said. He departed. I sat gazing out over the sea, more worried about Cochrane himself than anything else. In ten minutes Busuk returned, following Cochrane; the latter threw off his topee and dropped into a chair.

"Whew— hot work down there!" He felt in his pocket and held out a key. "Gin and ginger beer will go first chop, eh? Busuk, bring the gin decanter and some ginger beer."

The Malay took the key and went into the house. Cochrane reached for a cheroot from the open box and bit at it.

"What's up? Anything special?"

"Depends on the viewpoint," I responded slowly, and extended his letter. "'Here's your precious document. This paper absolves your trickery, your chicanery, your theft. You've made yourself an authority to take from a thief and restore stolen property. Eh?"

He flushed a little. "Hard words, aren't they? Better to say that this letter is my moral justification for helping a widow to regain her own property. My conscience is clear."

"But— suppose you were wrong?"

He frowned, his gaze driving at me. "You've admitted I was right."

"I admitted the letter was genuine," I amended. "Do you know where Bonn is buried?"

"Malacca."

I nodded.

"Last night I listened to your story about Bonn. Will you listen now to mine about Madame Bonn?"

"Of course," he said, more than a little puzzled by my words.

Busuk appeared and moved the table between us. He set it on a tray bearing some rice cakes, two tall glasses of ginger beer, the decanter of squareface with its little silver label hanging on the tinkling chain. I ordered him to close the door and window behind us.

The Malay gone, Cochrane laced the ginger beer sparingly with gin.

"If my conjectures are right, the money from all this trading of yours is not banked, but is kept in cash by Mrs. Bonn. Is that so?"

"Yes," said Cochrane, frowning again. "You don't know, perhaps that when Bonn was here Tanjan was his assistant."

"No!" Cochrane sat up stiffly. "Is that so?"

"It is. Now, you can confirm my statements later on without trouble. When Bonn shot himself, Tanjan was sent to Singapore, applied for a job with the Inter-island, and managed to get sent here with you. Meantime Madame Bonn had found that letter from Sparks and kept it. She knew its value, but there was something she needed to do. So she took Bonn's body to Malacca, buried him, and did what was necessary."

"What was it?" demanded Cochrane swiftly.

I shook my head.

"Not yet. Coming to it later on. Let's pass briefly over what took place here," I resumed. "You were cleverly handled, and your sense of justice made you act as you did. Had Madame Bonn been playing a straight game she would have banked the money as it came along; she did not. Money in banks can be reached by the law. You assumed full responsibility for what was done, having this letter from Sparks as protection and justification. You even planned to go to Singapore and face him with it. When I came along this seemed no longer necessary to you."

He watched me, listening with a mystified air.

"That little point, however," I went on, having turned my chair so that the lady could not appear without my seeing her, "was of supreme importance to Madame Bonn. You'll remember the suggestion came from her at tiffin that you go to Singapore with me."

He nodded. I tossed away my cheroot and took up my drink again.

"What happens? She does to Bangkok with to-morrow's shipment and makes collection. With her goes Tanjan. I suppose he has been quite convinced of the justice of what's been done?"

"Yes," said Cochrane. "And he has high regard for me."

"You think he has," I said, and smiled. "With them also go the two houseboys. Why? So that every trail will be lost. Siam is a safe place if any one fears the law. Meantime, what happens at Singapore when we arrive there? We have a meeting with Sparks or with the attorneys for the Inter-island— and within half an hour you are under arrest."

Cochrane started.

"Under arrest? But the letter―"

"Will not protect you. You'll be held responsible for all the looted stuff here. There will be no mercy shown; you know how they make examples of any agent who goes wrong! Your plea will not be accepted. It'll be said you tampered with the letter yourself and are trying to shift the blame on a widow. In any case the woman will have vanished, and so will the three Malays who might bear out your story."

Cochrane's face was livid. He stared at me with a deep anger-glimmer in his eyes.

"I don't get it," he said quietly, "You've said the letter was genuine―"

I held out to him my other letters from Sparks.

"Look at these. Sparks signs at some distance below the body of the letter. Now look at your own."

He opened up the three letters. Despite his pallor he was very composed, and I noted that his fingers were steady

"True," he said after a moment. "The signature here is closer to the body of the letter than in yours. Yet it seems genuine."

"It is genuine," I said, and he jerked up his head to look at me.

"But Madame Bonn went to Malacca, remember! While there she bought a typewriter, afterwards returning it as not satisfactory. She picked the machine very carefully, getting the same make as that used in Sparks's office, with the same sized type. If you'll consider, she could not have any typewriters closer to here than Malacca— her only reason for going there.

"The first paragraph of your letter," I went on, "was written by Sparks. The second paragraph, that in which he ordered his agent to break Bonn in every way that on which hangs your whole moral justification, was written by Mrs Bonn."

A low exclamation broke from Cochrane. He bent over the letters a moment. "How can you tell―"

"Easily enough! There's a slight difference in the blackness of the writing, showing two ribbons were used. Further, in the first paragraph every letter 'a' is slightly out of alignment, jumps a bit above the line. In the second paragraph every 'a' in perfectly aligned. There are so many 'a's' in the letter that the case is proved conclusively."

Cochrane bent his head again and  regarded the letter. Then he lifted a  ghastly face.

"By heavens, it is!" he murmured. His face blurred before me, and then came clear again. I found sweat on my brow and wiped it, with the unhappy sensation of a man who finds himself ill, nearly sick, without visible cause,

"What's the matter?" he demanded.

"Nothing. The heat, I suppose, makes me feel queer. Well, the game's still up to you to play, Cochrane! You've been duped— badly had, all around.''

He nodded. Colour was slowly coming back into his face,

"I've been a fool, yes, he said. "However, its clear enough. That shipment must not go to Bangkok—nor the woman, unless she leaves, the money behind."

"You told the truth; Sparks will be merciless and nobody could blame him. The best I can do is to make such amends as the money will bring about and resign."

"No," I said, and paused. Speech seemed oddly thick on my tongue. "No, you'll be clear enough. " That letter is evidence in your favour—it shows plainly the woman cooked up a clever plot. Then I can bear witness in your favour besides. I think there's nothing to fear, with the letter in your hands. I'll recommend that you be left here, if you like in full charge. "

"Won't do, old chap," said Cochrane quietly. "She's a woman, you know."

"She— she's a criminal." I corrected.

He reached out and took a cheroot from the box, then gave me a look.

"You don't seem to— h'm! I don't like the look around your eyes."

"Too hot," I said, and wiped my forehead again. "Devilish queer though. Smoking too much, I expect."

He struck a vesta and held it to his cheroot. For an instant I did not regard  him, but closed my eyes. I felt dizzy and began to be alarmed about myself. Then, when I opened my eyes again, I saw him holding the vesta to the letter in his hand— it was half consumed.

"Stop it!" I cried out, and realised forward. He evaded me, smiling.

"Man, are you mad? You need that letter."  He let the grey ash fall, and the smile in his eyes was something to remember.

"She's a woman," he said quietly, gently, "and a widow."

"You fool!" I exclaimed.

"Better be a fool," he said whimsically, "than a man like Sparks, I think. Hallo— I say, you're white as a sheet!''

I tried to get to my feet and could not. Suddenly it flashed upon me. "No; I'm the fool," I said, struggling, to get out the words. "Should have known better— she heard me pumping Busuk— ginger beer all fixed for me―"

A dizzy wave climbed up over me and I went under it into darkness.

vii

COCHRANE was several ways from being a fool.  When I keeled over in my chair he wasted no time on me— knew I was not dead. Madame Bonn was not going up against any murder charge except in case of extremity. So Cochrane reached out for his topee, clapped it on his head, and walked down the steps and across the compound on the beach path.

Cochrane knew he was in for it. Madame Bonn would get away on the French coaster for Bangkok at all costs— had to do it— and if he stopped her there would be fireworks with the limit off. Cochrane wavered at thought of me— perhaps they had poisoned me after all! However, he rallied and went out. His only chance now lay in swift action. He was unarmed, alone, and against him were the woman and three Malays. When he approached the beach, Cochrane was burning with shame and fury.

He felt in his pockets, found pencil and notebook, and wrote a brief chit. Then he beckoned the headman of the little village, who stood apart from the work at the godowns, and gave him the folded note

"Take this chit," he said. "When the steamer comes to-night or tomorrow morning, put off quickly in a boat and give it to the captain. Keep the matter  secret.''

Tanjan approached. Getting out a cheroot, Cochrane was careful not to warn the man by any alertness of word or manner.

The work was going forward merrily at the wharf, the last prau discharging its cargo into the filled sheds.

"Will number one godown hold any more?" asked Cochrane appraisingly.

"There is room, tuan-ku," returned Tanjan.

"Come, then. I wish to speak with you when I have seen it."

Number one had side walls, while the other was only bare roof. Cochrane led the way into the shed. Out of the bright sunlight, in the gloom of the shed, with piled boxes around, Cochrane turned to the Malay.

"How long were you with Tuan Bonn before you came here with me?" he asked reflectively. "Madame Bonn mentioned―"

Tanjan started. However, if Madame Bonn had seen fit to mention it―

"Two years, tuan-ku."

This was all the confirmation Cochrane needed. Already balanced for the blow, his fist lashed out like a mule's kick and drove into the pit of Tanjan's stomach. The Malay gasped horribly, doubled up, and went down inert.

Cochrane bent over him, took the kris, Jim flung it into a dark corner. Cord was ready to hand; he lashed the Malay wrist and ankle, searched him vainly for any other weapon, lifted him and put him back on top of the boxes out of sight. Then he departed.

Going to the wharf, Cochrane there finished the work, signed up for the consignments, and left everything shipshape. He was wondering all the while why his own drink had not been drugged, and concluded it was because Madame Bonn was very sure of him. And he was right.

Reaching the verandah, he found it deserted and passed on into the house to  my room. At the entrance Madame Bonn met him with a shake of her head and pointed to my figure in bed.

"He was taken ill— we've put him to bed. He's asleep."

Cochrane nodded. Cochrane went to his own room. In the desk drawer he had a pistol: it had lain there untouched, unloaded, since his arrival. He opened the drawer, took out a box of cartridges, reached for the pistol. It was not there. Making sure it was gone, he closed the drawer again with a shrug.

Presently he came out on the verandah. Busuk was setting out the tea things and Madame Bonn greeted him brightly, cheerfully, purringly. She asked about the shipments and mentioned she had better take charge of the papers since she would be going to Bangkok while Cochrane went to Singapore. Then there was the matter of his salary, which she would refund from her cashbox. This could be settled at once, if he liked.

She went inside and came out again with a lone sandalwood box highly carved, a toy Cochrane had given her some months previously. She laid it aside until she had poured the tea and flung him a merry question. "Something is wrong with you— what is it?"

"Nothing," said Cochrane. "Headache and the heat, I think."

Busuk was standing beside them. Silently he put sugar in the teacups as they were filled, and then into Cochrane's cup a drop of orange-flour scent— a pleasant little habit to which Cochrane had fallen victim.

Madame Bonn rose again. "Wait— I'll pot you an aspirin and some quinine. We can't afford fever, you know."

She went into the house. Cochrane dismissed the Malay, and when he was gone quietly exchanged the cups on the table.

She returned quickly with the medicine case. He watched narrowly, but she made no false moves, laid out an aspirin and a quinine capsule. He thanked her and washed them down with a swallow of tea. Madame Bonn opened the sandalwood box and drew out on envelope and passed it to him.

"Two cheques endorsed by me, and notes to make up the right amount," she said Cochrane put the envelope into his pocket without examining the contents. She drank her tea without noticing the perfumed taste, and poured more.

"Tanjan will do well in business," said Madame Bonn. A queer pallor had come into her face. "You know, he was educated in a mission school, went back to Islam, took a business course in Malacca, is thoroughly conversant with our way: and customs."

"I know," said Cochrane grimly. "And he helped take your husband's body to Malacca?"

"Yes." The steel-grey eyes wavered oddly. "He was here with Charles."

"You never mentioned it before."

"No? I suppose I took it for granted—" She broke off abruptly, and an expression of terror flashed into her face. Cochrane said nothing, but regarded her with a stony imperturbability. The little woman half rose, gripped the table edge, then sank helplessly back into her chair. Her eyes went to Cochrane, fastened upon his face, widened, in comprehension of his ironic stare.

"You— what have you done?" she gasped out, and put a hand to her throat.

"Nothing." said Cochrane. "What's the matter?"

"I― I— oh!" On the word she opened her mouth as though to gasp for breath, then fell back limply in her chair, and her eyes closed.

"I thought so," said Cochrane, a certain mournful satisfaction in his voice. "So you had Busuk fix it, did you? As you had him fix the ginger beer earlier this afternoon―"

She might have heard the words, for she stirred a little, moved feebly, and then once more went sagging down in her chair. She looked very helpless, pathetically feminine, as she lay there like a child asleep, her pallid features bedewed by light sweat, one arm outflung on the table.

Worry came into Cochrane's eyes as he pondered. A small fortune lay in this sandalwood box beside him on the table. He knew Madame Bonn would have been more than satisfied, had even wanted to clear out last time, but he had persuaded her to wait and risk one more consignment. Lucky he had done so now! As well, the woman must be taken care of— she must be got out of it at all costs. Cochrane knew he would have to stay and face the music, and intended nothing else. Meantime there were Busuk and Sahak to look after somewhere inside the house, and the sooner done the better.

The sandalwood box had best go into his wall-safe, thought Cochrane, and picked it up. He slipped off his pumps, rose, threw away his cheroot, and went into the bungalow with the box under his arm.

The key was in the box. The money in this box must go to the Inter-island Company now, and also the freight lying in the godowns. Approaching the door of the room used as an office, Cochrane suddenly paused. The door was nearly closed; from within the room came slight sounds, then voices in Malay, low pitched. Busuk and Sahak were in there.

"By Allah and Allah!" said one. "We have found all there is here, brother."

"So it seems. You have those letters Tanjan Hajji told you to keep? Give them here. Put all together."

Cochrane stared at the door. Pillaging his office, eh? He heard the safe door thud shut quite softly.

"And what about her brother?"

"In the curry to-night," said the voice of Busuk. "So commanded Tanjan Hajji. that she might remain asleep longer to-morrow than the white tuans."

A stir of incredulous auger rose in Cochrane— these three Malay devils were all in concert— meant to drug Madame Bonn, take her money, get off on the Bangkok boat! Thief was turning against thief with a vengeance!

"We have not heard her cry out," said Sahak uneasily. "She would be astonished and afraid when Tuan Cochrane fell asleep. I do not like it. He is not a bird to walk on a limed branch. Did you give him enough?"

"And plenty, by Allah," said Busuk. "Then go and see what has happened," said the other. "Here, take his revolver―"

Cochrane drew back.

viii

"I'LL TAKE the revolver— quick!" said Cochrane as the door opened. With its opening, his right arm had moved forward. Taken from the wall, he held an old kris of Terengganu steel; made back in the days when the flamed blade of a kris and its sharp point were meant not for display but for business.

As Busuk opened the door, the point of this kris pricked his skin just under his shoulder. He held out the revolver and Cochrane took it. The brown man was absolutely paralysed. Behind him, standing by Cochrane's desk, the elder brother was likewise unable to move; both Malays were stiff with terror at the sudden apparition of Cochrane.

The latter gestured Busuk back into the room, followed him, and locked the door. The revolver in his hand was loaded. He laid the sandalwood box on his desk.

"Go and stand against the wall," he said to the two men. They obeyed.

Cochrane himself sat down at the desk, where lay the pile of money collected by the two looters. With it were two letters enclosed in a rotten robber band. He took these up and inspected them. They were letters sent by Sparks to his private agent, the man who had come here and made a friend of Charles Bonn and betrayed the friendship.

Cochrane looked at the two men. "Unfaithful to your salt."

"Nay," stammered Sahak hoarsely.

"You planned to leave Madame Bonn here, to rob her and me, and flee."

"But we are not unfaithful, tuan, we are men of honour," said Busuk stoutly.

Cochrane smiled thinly, bitterly. "How did you explain it, then?"

"The charge is true, tuan. Yet Allah knows Tuan Bonn paid us and dismissed us the day he killed himself. Tanjan told us to stay and we should be in his employ. From that day, then, we have taken the salt of Tanjan Hajji."

"Very well," said Cochrane with a smile.

"Your lives are in my hand."

"That is true, tuan," said Busuk. "Who is man to avert his fate?"

"Your service with Tanjan Hajji is ended. His schemes are discovered and have failed. His life is in my hands. and turn, then, and serve― he is my captive― me instead."

"In the name of Allah, tuan!' claimed the astonished brothers.

"It is an offer," said Cochrane, "Accept and you are pardoned!"

"I accept, tuan," said Busuk. brown, sweating face glistening with relief. "Nay, we both accept and praise you!"

"Ye may well," said Cochrane grimly, "for if you refuse my orders this night I shall kill you. How long does the drug work you have given those two people."

"Twelve hours to a day of sleep, tuan," rejoined Busuk, "if the counter-drug be not given. The counter-drug kills the first in an hour's time."

Cochrane gestured towards the door. "Go and give the counter-drug to the white tuan in there. Let Madame Bonn sleep."

He looked at Sahak and touched his revolver. "You both will remain here in the house. Get dinner ready for an hour hence. Go."

With a salaam they obeyed. Cochrane went out to the verandah, lifted the figure of Madame Bonn, and carried her to her own room, where he left her on the bed.

Then he came back to the office and sat at the desk. With an enlarging glass he carefully examined those two letters from. Sparks and laid them aside. He opened the sandalwood box, counted the money in it, and put it into his safe, box and all. Then for a long while he sat smoking, thinking, pondering.

He did not know just what to make of one or two things. However, he was now certain as to his own position; the shipments would not go on the Bangkok coaster, and Madame Bonn would not go either. The village headman would take aboard that note.

"They'll clear out in a hurry"— and Cochrane smiled grimly— "at finding there's bubonic ashore here! I can see 'em go."

ix

IT WAS nearly an hour afterwards when I woke up, feeling rather muggy.

"Get dressed," he said over his shoulder from the door. "Then come along to dinner. No talk. I'll palaver later on."

When I had dressed I heard the chiming of a dinner gong, and found Cochrane awaiting me.

"Where's Madame Bonn?" I asked.

"Asleep," said Cochrane. When we had finished and the coffee was before us, he called Busuk and Sahak. The two Malays appeared.

"Go to the beach," said Cochrane. "In godown Number One you will find Tanjan Hajji bound and gagged and laid on top of the boxes. Take off his gag. leave his arms bound, and bring him before me."

The two departed. Then Cochrane squared away, met my eye steadily, and told me what had taken place since I was submerged under the dark flood.

"Now," he finished, "I've made up my mind that your theory as to things here was entirely wrong. I'm going to test it when Tanjan comes."

"Perhaps," I said. "But my theory was hinged on evidence."

"Your evidence was circumstantial, my friend," he said gently, and let the words sink in. I nodded, and we sat silently until the thud of bare feet came in from the gathering night. Before us in the room appeared the two Malays with the figure of Tanjan between them. They halted, facing us. Tanjan was immobile, brownly impassive, accepting his lot with Eastern fatality.

"One question, Tanjan Hajji," said Cochrane. "You were at Malacca with these men and with Madame Bonn. While there, Madame Bonn bought a typewriter and later refused it. Why?"

The Malay blinked at such a question, as well he might. Cochrane bad spoken in English, and he made answer in the same tongue.

"Tuan, it was in her mind to make slave of me, a typist. I refused."

"And since that day you planned to betray her?"

To this Tanjan said nothing.

Cochrane motioned to the two Malays.

"Take Tanjan to the verandah and wait. When I call, bring him again."

They went out. Cochrane gave me a stern look and brought out the two letters which he had mentioned.

"Now look at the deviltry of your circumstantial evidence!"

I read the letters. Both were very similar to the one Cochrane had burned— the incriminatory letter from Sparks. Both were written to his agent, emanated from his private office, were signed by him close to the body; of the letter. Both had received additions from another machine of the same make— nothing very bad this time, but private instructions.

When I laid them down Cochrane, spoke, watching me.

"Here is what happened with the other letter, as with these. Sparks sent this agent certain communications he did not want to go into the records— carbon copies are filed, you know. The letters were written, and later the additions were made, probably by Sparks himself or by his confidential secretary. For some reason another machine in the office was used; it may be a machine in his own office. Your whole theory falls down."

And it did. "You win," I said.

"I win," and triumph lit up Cochrane's face for a moment— more than triumph, self-justification.

"All I have done was right, was exactly as I thought. The woman is exactly what I thought her. The devil behind this game is Tanjan. He has schemed to loot the island here."'

"Yet you lose," I said, troubled. "You burned the letter."

Cochrane leaned back and laughed.

"Will you tell?"

I looked him in the eye.

"I saw the letter. Let Sparks admit having written it, as I think he will— and I'll not tell."'

"Good!" Cochrane brought his fist down on the table. "Good man! Then this big final consignment goes to the Inter-island on the company boat. We co with it, all of us. Madame Bonn take her money and goes to France. I go to Glasgow. You and I will force an amnesty from Sparks, for he won't know I burned the other letter, and sight of these two will show we had some of his letters. He's guilty as hell and he'll fall for the bluff."

"I think he will," I said. "H'm! As to my exact course of duty, I'm not sure and I really don't give a hang, Cochrane, I'm with you."

"Then it's settled," he said quietly, and clapped his hands. The three Malays came back into the room and stood silent. Cochrane looked at Tanjan and spoke again in English.

"You planned to take advantage of me, and rob me? Is it true?"

"It is true, tuan," said Tanjan.

"I forgive you," said Cochrane. "You planned to betray the woman who trusted you. You planned to rob her of all had refined from those who robbed her. You planned to leave her here drugged, to get away, to let her face prison or destitution. Is it true?"

"It is true, tuan," said Tanjan.

"This I do not forgive you," said Cochrane. "Why do you call me tuan and not tuan-ku?"

For an instant the impassive features of the Malay glinted with hatred.

"Call you tuan-ku? I have done so. What are you to me? A white king by birth? And what is that? I am of the royal line myself. My fathers were kings in the north before yours knew there was an Asia! The woman would have made a slave-scribe of me. You would make a slave of me. Bah! I have failed, but it is the will of Allah."

And with this brief outburst he relapsed. Cochrane only nodded his head and looked at Sahak.

"Go into the salon and bring me the long Perak kris from the wall."

The Malay obeyed. Presently he came back and gave Cochrane a plain old horn-handled kris in a plain wooden sheath. Cochrane drew the steel and showed it gold-inlaid, simple, heavy.

"Take this," and he held it out to Busuk. The Malay quivered slightly, then took it.

"You know what it is?"

"It is the-sword of the executioner of Perak, tuan."

"Yes," said Cochrane, then turned and looked full at Tanjan. "For your crime against me you are forgiven. For your crime against a woman you are to be punished. Sahak, lead this man out upon the mine trail until you come to the plain tree standing above the spring. At this place, Busuk, you will execute him."

A sharp breath escaped the brown men. I broke from my trance, leaned forward, caught Cochrane by the wrist.

"This is not legal," I protested.

"No. This is justice. For once in my life, if never again, I am a king! Tanjan Hajji, is this sentence just? I who am a king, ask you, also of kingly blood."

Despite the Malay's inward anger, despite all that the answer meant, pride was too much for him. "It is a just sentence,'' he said quietly.

"Then go," said Cochrane, and turned his back on them. He lifted his water-glass to me. "My friend, the health of Madame Bonn!"

A strange light shone in his face, filled his eyes; an odd transfiguration lifting him above, himself. But I scarcely saw, for I was looking, after the three brown men who went out into the night.

____________________

3: On The Very Threshold

Journal (Adelaide) 12 July 1922

GOLD IS WHERE you find it, says the time worn proverb of prospectors. So is luck. So is the one woman.

Randolph knew because, in his day he had found all three. He had found the gold, and other men had reaped it. He had found the luck, and under his grip it invariably turned sour. He had found the one woman— a slim, gold-crowned girl with pure eyes, who took looked once into his soul and had turned away from him, shivering.

Randolph tramped down the world alone, unloving and unloved. He went from bad to worse, thieving, drinking, and lending himself to any crime or vice for the means of support. Out on the borders of China, where the dregs of the world foregather, he became one of the white harpies who prey upon white and yellow and brown alike, and he learnt terrible things.

In Shanghai he neared the end, serving there as tout for a Chinese gambling house and smuggling opium out of the Japanese quarter to his master in the native city. But Randolph went even a step lower than this when he murdered his master one night, got away uncaught, and took passage for home with a big suit case crammed full of gold and banknotes. He never read the papers, and he slunk away from every one else on the ship; thus he knew nothing of the war until the customs men in San Francisco demanded his papers.

Randolph tried to lie, and fell into hot water that grew hotter all the time. So be threw up the sponge, and after depositing his blood-stained money in a local bank let himself be inducted into the United States Army. The army unanimously agreed that he was one of the worst men ever whelped, and instead of being sent to France he was shipped to the Mexican border.

There Randolph kept company with three hundred other men, lost in a desert camp on the brink of perdition, during month after month of nothing but blue sky and white desert, until he was whipped into a lean, hardness of body and mind. Much of the evil was blown out of him by the blazing sunlight, and shamed out of him by the lean brown strength of the men around him. Much of the crafty sin of Asia was wiped from his eyes, but it festered within him like a maggot.

Thus Randolph became much like the man he had been three years previously.  Put a man in a monastery, give him no chance whatever to sin, or set him on a pillar in the desert, and you have a saint in the making. This is the theory on which penitentiaries stand. Like all theories, it is very fine, but in  practise it works out only about once in 10,000 cases.

Following these things, Randolph contracted influenza and pneumonia, and was in hospital for a month, where be remained later as orderly. Then, when the epidemic became general, he was of so much use that he was transferred to New Orleans. He was a valuable man, more valuable by reason of having an education. His bad reputation was forgotten. A quiet, slender man with reddish hair, regular features, and a pair of steady blue eyes, he became liked. Only his eyes never matched his lips in a smile. They were unsmiling, those eyes, and very keen.

Oddly enough, in these days his thoughts turned much towards the slim, gold-crowned girl with pure eyes. In all his life she had been the one flaming desire, the one unquenched passion, quiescent for long intervals, but certain sooner or later to awaken and torture him anew.

After the armistice, foreseeing discharge, Randolph drew  on his bank account in San Francisco and kept the draft on his person. Those army men who knew his record— what there was to know of it―  said that bete was a man reborn, made anew, turned from a scoundrel into a credit, and all by means of military discipline. The chaplain who had attended him in hospital said that here was a man drawn to the Lord, who had seen the error of his ways, and had found salvation, and all by means of lying sick unto death.

Randolph himself said nothing at all, but took his honourable discharge, bought himself the habiliments of civilian life, and with the calm, pure eyes of a girl burning into his soul, disappeared.

A GREAT UNIVERSITY TOWN is, in many ways, a place-of paradoxes. It has its little iron-bound cliques, yet is open to all the world. It is usually a sleepy little place, yet more au courant with the world than most cities. Its entire attention is aptly riveted upon collegiate life and activities— upon that little cosmos of undergraduate life which gives the town its raison d'être. In such a town a man may hide himself admirably from the world, or he may expose himself to all the world, according to his desire.

Randolph, well aware that in all, this town there was not one person who knew him, came using, his own name, deposited a large sum of money in the bank, and rented a furnished room. It was late summer. Within a short while, the college activities would spring into full swing.

Seeming to know his way around, Randolph walked down the hill past the railway station to the river, and rented a canoe at the boat house. There, morning after morning, be paddled up the widening reaches of the stream, past the stone quarries and the bridge, as far as the narrows, and then floated down again, drifting in mind and body. It was his first holiday in a long while, and he set himself to enjoy it thoroughly.

Later, he went over to the college library, introduced himself to the  librarian, and asked help in preparing a work upon China. He proved to have a surprising knowledge of China, and was urged to make himself at home in the  library, which he did. The librarian was so impressed that he gave Randolph a card to the University Club— a club composed of professors mainly, occupying the basement of one of the buildings. There Randolph met gentlemen with whom he moved on an even footing.

This was not hard. A university man himself in the fled, lost days of youth, he had little there of which to be ashamed. It was later that his record drew blank. After this Randolph visited one of the professors in the medical school—a red-Scotsman, a dynamic little man, of vast repute and skill— and was treated for stomach trouble, which he did not have. Dr. Murray was a second father to many of the college girls, having the quality of acquiring confidences from those who knew him.  He gave Randolph a cigar and chatted about certain Chinese diseases.

"By the way, said Randolph, meditatively, "I used to know a girl years ago who came here, I believe, to take up some college work. Shannon her name was, Elsie Shannon—"

"What's that?" Murray bounced out of his chair with eager interest. "Why, my deaf chap, she's one of my girls— has been for years! You know her?"

"I used to." Randolph lowered his lids to hide the flame in his eyes. "Is she here now?"

"Will be next week. Why, Elsie is the loveliest girl that ever lived― one of the finest! She has charge of the women's hostel, you know; a perfect mother to all the girls, yet she's only a girl herself! Are you to we here long?"

"I don't know yet," said Randolph. "I'm doing some research work, you know."

"I heard."

Randolph walked down to the river. There he got into his canoe and paddled hard and furiously. Murray's words were burning in him, awakening  all the quiescent fever that lay in his soul. Not until dark did he come home again, the fever burnt out.  She would be here in a week!

Upon the following day, a chance remark of his friend, the librarian, decided that be had better get busy. He engaged a typist and began to dictate what he knew about China and its worst aspects; he was not engaged with the iniquities of the Chinese, but rather of the foreign settlements. Randolph undertook the work in an ironical mood, merely to have something to show in case be were called upon to show anything. He knew his subject— knew it down to ground. He knew it so thoroughly after two days his typist decided that wis no work for a lady and threw up a her job.

Randolph only laughed, engaged a student typist of the male sex, and let himself go to the limit in his dictation. He found himself enjoying it in a grim  way, and it was certain his typist was kept interested.

Randolph took some of his completed work to the librarian, who delved into with a fierce avidity, and directed him to a certain professor of English, the author of many textbooks on writing and construction, who himself had never been able to write an acceptable story. The professor of English was keenly intrigued by Randolph's pages, called, them utterly hopeless as a manuscript, yet gave him directions as to publishers. All this was thoroughly enjoyable to Randolph, who chuckled many and many a time over the game he was playing with, these gentry of the college world.

One afternoon he was engaged in a rubber of bridge at the club, and Dr. Murray cut in. Randolph casually mentioned Elsie Shannon. "She's not here yet, I understand," said one of the other men.

"No," said Murray with a keen glance which, despite its kindliness, suddenly alarmed Randolph. "No. Her mother is very ill, and she has been given leave of absence for a little while."

"Ah!" said the professor "of French, who was dealing. "An angel that girl, if ever one lived! But did you ever notice, gentlemen, that in all the sacred writings we invariably hear of the angels as beings of the male sex? There's a queer thing for you to ponder, Mr. Randolph! Put it in a book some time."

"Thanks; perhaps I shall," said Randolph, glancing at his hand from beneath lowered lids. "You pass? Two hearts."

"Another odd thing," observed Murray during the next deal, "is that it is just such a woman as Miss Shannon who seems to attract the most brutal and debased men in the world. You're not a fictionist, Randolph? Well, it's often struck me that there the fictionists hit the mail, of human mature squarely on the head. The attraction of opposites I presume."

"All nonsense!" said the professor of French, ruffling up his spade beard and watching Randolph deal. "A girl like Miss Shannon can't be fooled. That type, my, friends, looks through to the spirit of a man. Externals do not matter."

Randolph wondered that the cards did not tremble in his hands. He was thinking of the day, well over the years, when Elsie Shannon had looked into his soul and turned away, shivering.

ONE DAY RANDOLPH was talking to the librarian, who suddenly broke off and glanced from the door of his office.

"Wait a minute, Randolph, there's a chap here you ought to meet. Perhaps yon can make him useful, too. He was here last year, and has returned to finish his course— a very bright young fellow indeed."

The librarian darted out, and presently returned. Accompanying him was a smiling young man with yellow skin and large spectacles. Randolph started slightly, realizing he was a Chinese student.

"Mr. Randolph, I'd like to introduce Mr. Li Huan, of Shanghai. You were speaking to me about your typist difficulties, and, in case you need a good man, I can recommend Mr. Li absolutely!"

Randolph shook hands. Li Huan was very polite; he seemed to be a quiet, efficient sort of chap, and his English, was of the clear-cut, excellent smoothness that educated foreigners so often acquire.

"Not a half-bad idea," said Randolph. "My present typist is poor in spelling, and I'm rather weak on Chinese words. If you care to come and see me "

"Another thing," went on the librarian. "Mr. Li is very keenly interested in regenerating his country, like many educated Chinese of to-day, and, I think that he might be able to give you some additional information on the sort of stuff you're writing about. It would fall right in his fine."

That evening Randolph had the Chinaman for a caller. Li Huan proved to be a merry soul, but earnest withal. When he had glanced over a few pages of Randolph's much-touted work, he glanced up in surprise.

"This is extraordinary, Mr. Randolph!" he said. "I had hoped some day to write such a book, exposing fully, the ways in which the foreign settlements and foreigners generally treat and exploit the vices and weaknesses of my countrymen; but I could never hope to accomplish such a thing as you have here produced! I would be extremely glad to help on it; I would count it a privilege!"

Randolph swore to himself. He had no desire whatever to be pushed into writing any real book, and he foresaw future complications. Nevertheless, be realized that his position would be firmly established in this community if he seized the chance thus offered to him. He engaged Li Huan.

The amazing earnestness of this young man gave him much cynical amusement. Li Huan, who was admittedly working his way through college, and needed money, worked night and day on typing over again what the others had done— be put the manuscript into excellent shape, added much, changed much, until Randolph was astonished at his own work when he read over the pages. As he had nothing better to occupy his time, he threw himself into the work with Li Huan. It served to keep down the flame hammering at his pulses whenever he thought of Elsie Shannon. Still she did not come to town.

A little afraid of Murray, Randolph went one day to the registrar and made direct enquiries. He found that Elsie Shannon's mother was very ill, and that Elsie might not be here for another month; but she would come ultimately.

So Randolph went home again, flinging himself into work in order to keep down the burning desire that gripped him whenever be spoke of her, heard of her, dared to think of her. He was in no hurry for her to come. Every week that she delayed established him here more securely. It was upon this firm establishment that he must depend for everything. He meant that she should hear much of him before he saw her; she must be looking forward a little to seeing him, to seeing the young wastrel she had known in other days, who had now made of himself a man of mark. Once he saw her be must act quickly, swiftly, put his well-conceived plan into operation without the least delay. He must see her one day, and on the following day— act!

He dared take no chances on himself, the quivering passion that might unmask him if he waited; he dared take no chances on Elsie Shannon piercing once again into his very soul with her calm, pure gaze! She would do it he knew well, if she had the opportunity. He resolved to give her none. One day a brief meeting, very brief, and the appointment for the day following. He must arrange this for a Saturday and Sunday, of course. He trembled at the thought of how brief the first meeting must be! In the interim she would hear much of him, he knew; she would look forward to the talk with him, to the little dinner. That much she would mot refuse because of old times, and because she would have heard that he was liked and respected here. She would be curious— that would be bait!

Randolph had not the least compunction in that world over what he meant to do. He had laid himself bare, dissected himself, calmly and coolly during these long desert months down on the Mexican border, and afterward. He knew that he had been made into a lean, powerful instrument, and he had chosen deliberately between good and evil.

He might have chosen good had he thought there was the least possibility that Elsie Shannon would ever care for him. But he knew better. He knew what a slender, pure flower she was, and how she could read into his soul with those calm eyes. He knew that she could never love him— that his past would be like a frightful thing to her, blasting him even from the pale of friendship. And so he had chosen evil, careless of what came afterward yet building up his own way of escape; careless of the sin that he was scheming, careless of everything except the burning flame that had devoured his vitals these years part, torturing him anew after each period of dormant slumbering. He would possess her, at whatever cost!

Every little detail was planned, ready, bulwarked. The dinner invitation― her acceptance of that would depend upon the briefness of that first meeting and what she heard about him; upon his position here, upon the bait of curiosity to see how he had made a man of himself!  So he built his foundations carefully, step by step, neglecting nothing at all.

He bought a two seater and learnt to run it.  Often he drove over to the city, only an hour's drive away from the collegiate town, and there he carefully scanned, with the eye of the somewhat scornful connoisseur, the places where they could dine. He made arrangements for everything in his mind, planning each detail of everything in his mind. He hid the little drug that he would put into her coffee, and knew how; every detail would be worked.

There was nothing to do but to await her coming. Meanwhile he worked with Li Huan, and the book drew rapidly together— almost too rapidly, thought Randolph, seeing that it would be completed in a short while now. After all, there was only so much that he could put into it.

Li Huan helped him grandly, proving to have a pretty good acquaintance himself with the evils that afflicted his people in the Treaty Ports. Often they worked late into the night, Li Huan brewing over a spirit lamp rich orange-blossom tea that was sent to him by his family in Shanghai, and serving little sweet Chinese cakes that came to him by parcel post. And at last Randolph had word that she was coming.

"IT IS DONE, Mr. Randolph," said Li Huan, taking the final page from the typewriter. Randolph lay back in his chair and chewed his cigar, looking at the sheaf of pages that Li Huan was jostling together into a solid mass.

"Finis" had been typed; the manuscript was complete. In good time, too, thought Randolph. On the previous day Elsie Shannon had arrived to take up her work. On the following afternoon he was going to see her the first time, going to pay the first brief visit. The following day was Saturday; things fitted in well; at last the gods— or the devils— were working on his side!

"Wrap it up, Li Huan," said Randolph. "Send it to the publisher we agreed upon."

What a joke that book was, he reflected! He was glad to have the wretched thing done with, and Li Huan out of the way for a time. Already his pulses were hammering at the very thought of Elsie Shannon being here in town. He forced himself into a grim control. The sight of Li Huan wrapping up the completed manuscript amused him; the little yellow man was so dreadfully serious, so monumentally in earnest about it all!

Randolph chuckled suddenly and leant forward.

"Tell you what I'll do, Li Huan," he said, chuckling again, as the other blinked toward him through his large spectacles. "You've worked like a dog on this book, and I don't need the money— in fact, I don't think it'll bring much, to be frank. I'll make you a present of it."

Li Huan stared at him a long moment, a puzzled frown creasing his yellow face. "A present!" he said slowly. "How do you mean, Mr. Randolph?"

"Why, anything it brings goes to you!" Randolph laughed, not striving to hide his amusement over the whole business. "Send the publishers a letter saying that I've given you the manuscript, and all future correspondence is to be handled by you."

"That— that is most generous of you, Mr. Randolph!" Li Huan gazed at him, then slowly shook his head. "But I have enquired how these things are done, sir, and what you suggest would hardly do. The manuscript bears your name, you know; that is only just and fair—  Then, sir, the publishers would have to know from you that I had the right to handle the manuscript," said the yellow man earnestly.

"All right," Randolph laughed. "Type off a letter and I'll sign it." He typewriter began to bang once more, hurriedly and frantically, as though Li Huan doubted that his good fortune would linger. Randolph chewed his cigar, his thoughts going to Elsie Shannon, excitement fevering him until he swore to himself and got a grip on his senses. Li Huan handed him the typed sheet, and he scrawled his signature across it.

"Shall I get the tea and cake how, sir?"

Randolph nodded, thinking he needed something to calm him.

"If you like."

Thank heaven, this would be the last bit of work with that confounded China boy in the room, silently efficient, a dynamo throttled down and muffled completely beneath yellow velvet!

Murray was a dynamo, too— the word made him think of the doctor, somewhat uneasily. He must take precautions, there; Dr. Murray was a queer little man, brimful of violent impulse, and red-headed.

Presently Li Huan set the tray on the table, the cups brimming with golden liquid brewed from the finest-buds, orange-scented, beside the cups a plate of the sweetish cakes of rice-flour. Randolph took his cup in his lap. La Huan swung about his typist's chair and faced him.

"An odd tang to this tea!" said Randolph, smacking his lips over the slightly astringent fluid. He took one of the cakes and dipped it into the tea, eating it. "Is this a new shipment from your family, Li Huan?"

"No, Mr. Randolph. This is some old tea that I had on hand."

Li Huan took off his spectacles and burnished them with his handkerchief, leaving his tea untasted.

"I ran out of my last lot, unfortunately. This is some very fine old tea that I was keeping out of sentiment. It is some that my father had, and used only on very important occasions."

"So? I appreciate the honour," said Randolph, and swallowed the tea hurriedly. He could hardly pretend that he liked it, but forced himself to courtesy. "You never told me much about yourself, Li Huan. What was your father's business?"

Li Huan smiled apologetically. Randolph felt a queer sensation, as though that tea bad not agreed with him.

"My father," said the young Chinaman, blandly, "cherished this tea as the choicest of his possessions. You see, I am not ashamed. In China it is quite honourable to gamble, as you know. That chapter you wrote on gambling houses was a masterpiece! Well, my father kept a gambling house in Hu-tsen, the native city of Shanghai. Some years ago he was basely murdered by an American ruffian whom he had befriended."

Randolph tried to leap out of his chair, but found himself perfectly helpless to move. As through a mist he saw the features of Li Huan blinking at him, and now they wore a new and terrible expression.

"You see, Mr. Randolph, I knew who that American was. This tea has peculiar properties. To-morrow they will find that you died from heart failure. It was a tea that my father cherished very highly. I waited until now to give it to you in order that the book might be finished. I expect great things of that book. And it was kind of you to give it to me and sign the letter, for that removed one of my chief problems.

"I hope, Mr. Randolph," pursued the bland voice, now blurred to the ears of Randolph, "that the book will pay me well. It must! Because that will only be justice; you took my father's money, you know, and this will be an excellent way of paying me."

Randolph tried to hear more— tried frantically and horribly— but he could not.

DR. MURRAY and the university librarian were alone in their easy chairs in the corner of the club. They were old cronies, these two.

"You remember Randolph?" said the librarian. "It's a most remarkable thing the way that book of his has been selling. As an exposé it's been marvellous; but the book itself has a very queer flavour to it— an ironic tang all through the thing."

The doctor nodded. "Yes. its success has been phenomenal. Randolph led a rather hard life out there in China, I believe— got a good deal of his information at first hand."

"I didn't know that," said the librarian reflectively.

"At any rate, Li Huan has been enriched through Randolph's giving him the manuscript. Most have been about the last thing poor Randolph did, too. That chap must have had a big heart; many taciturn men are like that. I suppose he knew that he'd go out suddenly some day."

"It was a tragedy," said Dr. Murray— "a tragedy in more ways than one. His death gave me a pretty stiff jolt, I can tell you."

"You?" repeated the librarian, "I didn't know you were such friends."

"Oh, not on his account primarily," said the doctor." You remember Elsie Shannon— how she gave up her work here altogether and has gone home to take care of her mother?"

The librarian's brows lifted. "Eh? You don't mean to say there was any connection?"

"There was," stated Murray gruffly, "Damn it! I've never been so broken up in my life. You see, Elsie had known Randolph some years previously. He was a bit wild then, I fancy, from what she's told me. The girl loved him, but could not accept his wildness, and he went away.

"Well, Randolph turned up here, after making a man of himself, in order to meet her again. Elsie had given me some idea of the story. Almost the first time I met Randolph I realized that he was the man she had always loved. You see, Elsie had always had a strange faith in him, had always believed that he'd turn out right and come back a real man— just as he did. I saw her the night after she came to town, had a long talk with her about Randolph; and man— man, you never saw the mystery of womanhood as I saw it in her eyes that night! It was the next day we heard of his death."

"They— they never saw each other?" queried the Librarian softy.

Murray shook his head.

"He died on the very threshold," he said— "on the very threshold."

___________________

4: Mormon Valley

Federation Press, Ltd, London, 1924

1: The Patron Of Art

HAVING RISEN an hour later than usual, John Marsh leisurely consulted a memorandum pinned to the wall, and set about making a scrupulous toilet.

Half an hour for dressing!" he observed complacently. "This is great! One of the idle rich at last— no subway rush for mine this morning!"

John Marsh was about to see New York City on a working day, and that great city was about to see him.

John Marsh had not lost his job, as one might suppose. He was a perfectly good draftsman in the offices of the Hammond Construction Company, and some day would become a constructing engineer, if his application were ever honored. The chief clerk, however, had been gathered to his fathers; an old employee of the firm, the day of his funeral had been set aside as a holiday.

After breakfast, the next item on John Marsh's schedule called for the luxury of a walk downtown, via Fifth Avenue, as far as Twenty -third Street. There he would have an uninterrupted two hours of browsing amid the luxuriant old bookstalls.

Circumstances, however, combined to interrupt the smooth flow of his carefully-planned holiday. At five minutes past nine Marsh passed the doors of the Sanderson Art and Auction Gallery, which had just been opened to the day's bidders. After a peep inside the doors, he entered and slid into an inconspicuous seat. There was being sold, it appeared, an infamous collection of alleged Chinese art.

Due perhaps to the auctioneer, perhaps to the very slender assembly of bidders, no great interest was aroused in the alleged Chinese art.

At length, in despair, the auctioneer took down a kakemono, a picture representing a horse beside a tree, with an adjacent Chinaman who was apparently devoutly interested in the tail of the horse. The colors were grays and browns on the faded brown silk panel, with the single exception of the Chinaman's robe; this was voluminous, and of a softly shimmering red, a dusky, rich, wonderful red.

"Gentlemen, look at this!" pleaded the auctioneer, almost with tears. "Ancient painting on silk; I may state positively that the piece dates back from the Chien-lung period, and very probably from the early Ching. What am I bid?"

Some one indicated that his pleasure was represented by the sum of five dollars, whereat the auctioneer fell to work— in vain. No second bid was forthcoming. John Marsh, meantime, felt himself lured by the magic words, "Chien-lung— early Ching!" and by the dusky shimmer of the Chinaman's red robe.

"For the last time!" The auctioneer's gaze roved entreatingly from face to face. "For the last time, gentlemen! I cannot sell upon one bid. Five dollars I am bid on this most exquisite work of art— do I hear twenty? Ten? Eight? Seven? Six?"

"Six!" said Marsh— and then damned himself for an utter ass.

The kakemono was knocked down to John Marsh for six dollars. He sought the street, the long parcel beneath his arm. He was not happy over his purchase.

"What the devil did I buy this thing for?" he asked himself, and muttered the obvious reply. "Six dollars ! Now I'm stung, and serves me right for butting into an auction sale. What'll I do with this cursed thing all day?"

A ready solution came to mind. The firm's offices were but three blocks distant, and despite the holiday some one was sure to be there. He could leave the ungainly package in his own desk.

Reaching his place of work, he took the elevator to the Hammond Company's office floor, wearing a consciously guilty air. As he had expected, the offices were open, and a stenographer in attendance, who informed him that no one else except Mr. Hammond was around.

Tilting up his drafting board he unrolled his purchase and spread it out upon the board. Then he lighted his pipe and assumed a critical air. For all he could tell, the thing had been painted a thousand years ago— or yesterday. The dusky red robe made a gorgeous spot of color. Marsh suddenly broke into a chuckle.

"Old boy," he soliloquized aloud, "you are certainly a peach of a hypnotist! If―"

He paused suddenly at sound of a sudden exclamation behind him.

"Bless— my— soul! Marsh, what's this I see?"

Caught! Marsh stifled a groan as he turned, to behold the new head of the firm standing behind him and gazing fixedly at the kakemono. If Marsh were any judge, Hammond seemed rather excited; the crisp iron-gray mustache was bristling and behind the pince-nez Hammond's keen blue eyes were very intent.

"H'm!" Hammond grunted. "Where on earth did you pick up this thing? It seems about ready to fall to pieces!"

"Well, there's no accounting for tastes!" Marsh bit hard on his pipe stem. " I don't suppose the average person would take a fancy to it, Mr. Hammond — these old Chinese things require cultivated tastes to appreciate 'em— like ripe olives."

Hammond continued to stare at the picture as if fascinated.

"H'm!" he grunted again. "Marsh, I didn't know that you went in for this sort of thing!"

"I don't. Marsh grinned. "I get thirty-five a week, which does not allow of liberal expenditures. Still, an occasional extravagance —"

" 'Tisn't much of a picture, is it?" broke in Hammond. " As a work of art, I mean."

"Well, sir, there's art— and art!" Marsh nonchalantly exhaled a cloud of smoke. " I just bought this on my way downtown; happened across it by a streak of pure luck, and have really had no chance to examine it closely. However, I'm positive that it goes back to the Chien-lung period, and very probably to the— er — early Ching."

"Bless my soul, Marsh! Why, my boy, I never suspected this trait in you!"

"What? Extravagance?"

"No— appreciation of Chinese art! It's quite a hobby of my own, you know! But what, if I may ask, induced you to buy this picture ? There's not an atom of color in it except that red robe!"

"That's why I bought it." Marsh seemed not to observe that his auditor swallowed hard. "See how that robe stands out, Mr. Hammond! Wonderful bit of color. I have my own ideas about the picture, but I haven't verified 'em yet, of course. What's your honest opinion about it?"

Hammond expanded, and donned his glasses anew.

"A cursory opinion, of course — h'm! You seem quite correct, my boy, in identifying it with the early Ching period. Where did you find it?"

"Sanderson's. Cost six dollars."

"Six dollars!" Hammond muttered something under his breath. Then he again gazed at Marsh.

"May I ask if you have taken any steps to verify your— er— your ideas about this picture?"

"I've only just bought it," and Marsh laughed. "I've a pretty solid notion what it is, but— well, that robe, you know "

"Marsh, you're a positive genius! Some people are born that way, with the ability to ferret out these things, or to strike on them by a lucky chance! See here, I'm having Mr. Herschel, one of the Metropolitan curators, up to dine with me to-night; he's going to pass on a couple of Ming tiles I just bought, and I wish you'd join us and fetch this thing along. What say?"

Marsh murmured his assent to the invitation.

On returning to his own office, Hammond had evidently neglected to close the door. He was now, it appeared, talking over the phone, for his heavy, clean-cut words carried distinctly to Marsh's ears— and his voice was sharpened by the excitement of the collector.

"Herschel, don't you dare fail me to-night!" he was declaiming stridently. "What do you think has happened? I just discovered that one of my boys here in the office is a regular Chinese art critic— yes, sir! He bought a kakemono at Sanderson's this morning for six dollars— and it turns out that it's one of those rare precipitate-of-gold affairs. If it's the real thing "

A door slammed and the strident voice was cut off. But Marsh had learned enough.

"Precipitate of gold!" he muttered, rising and staring down at his purchase. " Well, that's something to go on. I can get a quick lunch, then go up to the Metropolitan for the afternoon and get down a little patter about Chinese art. John, you have to do it! If you confess to the old man now, he'd fire you!"

The Metropolitan Museum being established for the purpose of disseminating knowledge, and John Marsh having put in a feverish afternoon in search of knowledge, he arrived at the Hammond residence that evening with a great jumble of information on Chinese art— all of which vanished precipitately at his introduction to Miss Elsa Hammond.

Thereafter, with one notable exception, Marsh forgot everything except the young lady whom he took in to dinner. The exception came when Curator Herschel, who was a pedantic little old man, said something about Sung period porcelain. Marsh happened to receive the remark, thought it was aimed at him, and nodded sagely.

"Yes, indeed, Mr. Herschel! It's very beautiful stuff. In that sale I attended this morning there was a fine piece of scarlet porcelain that looked as
if it might have been Sung. A very odd— er— celadon, I believe it was."

Instantly he perceived that somewhere he had made a fatal error. Clinton Hammond gave him a glance whose uplifted brows tokened pitying surprise.

"What, Marsh! Sung porcelain in red? You never see any old Sung that is not blue!"

"I didn't say it was Sung; I said it looked like it!" retorted Marsh.

"And," put in Herschel with a keen look of interest, "it may have been Sung, Mr. Marsh. You're mistaken, Mr. Hammond. While all the older Sung pieces usually found are blue, still they made it in all colors."

Result— amazed triumph for John Marsh.

Dinner over, Hammond led the way to his "trophy room," followed by Herschel. There was no Mrs. Hammond; and Elsa, who was off to an opera party, said farewell to Marsh and left him with tingling finger tips. Sighing, he followed his host.

In no long time he learned that the picture which he had purchased for six dollars had no equal except in a famous Detroit collection. The title was "Old Syce and Travelling Horse," and the robe of the syce had indeed been painted with precipitate of gold by one Chang Mow.

When Herschel made his farewells, Hammond halted Marsh with a curt speech.

"Hold on a moment if you've no engagement, Marsh! I want a word with you."

Ten minutes later Marsh reclined in an easy-chair and eyed Hammond with uneasy anticipation, which deepened upon the offer of a fresh superba.

"Well, I have two things to discuss with you, Marsh," said Hammond slowly. "First is this kakemono. See here, I'll be frank ; I want to buy it, if you'll sell the thing. You heard what Herschel said, that its value might be anything. Will you sell?"

"I'll sell," responded Marsh, "for one thousand dollars."

"Whew-w-w!" Hammond whistled. " Nine hundred and ninety-four dollars profit— say, Marsh, you'll do! Upon my word, you'll do! It's a bargain. I like your style, and that brings us to the second subject under discussion."

He paused to select a fresh cigar for himself.

Marsh with difficulty repressed his emotions. Certainly this was proving one great little old day for John Marsh !

"The second affair is business." Clinton Hammond dropped his benign attitude ; now became his alert, crisp business self.

"Glad I dropped onto this real ability of yours, Marsh," he continued. " And didn't I hear you telling Elsa at dinner that you'd had a thorough engineering education ? "

Marsh nodded.

Hammond inspected the rather rugged features of Marsh for a moment.

"Have you ever been West?"

"Yes. I worked on reclamation projects during two college vacations. That's all."

"Good enough. We're considering, Marsh, taking up a project of that sort; not as a company investment, but as a private enterprise, and we've taken over thirty thousand acres of State land on the California-Nevada line.

"This land of ours is at present worth a few cents an acre, being desert. But in the hills there is a natural pocket— which is on our land— and all this pocket needs is a dam to make it an all-fired big reservoir. Further, we reach good water in and around this pocket at a depth of two to three hundred feet. Do you get the idea ? "

"Of course!" The eyes of Marsh gleamed with interest. "Pump up the water, fill the reservoir, establish an irrigation system— and sell the twenty thousand acres ! If you're sure of your facts, it looks like a howling success. Of course, it's going to take money."

"It takes, but it also makes, my boy! The land will sell for from three to eight hundred dollars an acre; reclaimed desert land, in a long valley such as we've found, will grow anything. But, after the land is sold, our company retains the water works— and sells the water, thus producing a perpetual income. Looks good, eh ? "

"Uh-huh." Marsh's enthusiasm was relegated to the background by a corking idea which had come to him— and which he nursed in silence for a space.

"Then here's the point. Will you, Marsh, resign from the Bryce-Hammond firm and take up the job of constructing engineer for this company we've formed ? Don't," and Hammond held up a protesting hand, " don't think me a fool, Marsh. I realize you've had practically no experience, and I'll keep a string on you by having Ashby, who's constructing that Colorado bridge for which we got the government contract, run over from time to time and act as consultant with you."

"Oh! Then who'll be in charge?"

"You will be — unless we fire you. Salary, three thousand a year and expenses, and a permanent job with the firm if you make good."

Marsh inspected the end of his cigar thoughtfully.

"I'll tell you," he returned, choosing his words.

"Are you going to sell stock?"

"No. Privately subscribed."

"All right. Then, Mr. Hammond, suppose we argue on this basis: Instead of paying me a thousand for that kakemono, give me stock in this company;  instead of three thousand salary, make it one thousand and. the other two thousand in stock ; with a further bonus of four thousand in stock if the work's completed in first-class shape!"

"Bless— my— soul!"

Clinton Hammond regarded his employee in unqualified admiration.

" Young man," he observed dryly, " you have nerve — and my judgment of you is sustained. So you have faith in this prospect, on my bare word? "

"I have faith in your judgment."

"Then you're the man to work for and with me," said Hammond bluntly. "Your proposal goes, Marsh ! I'll set aside the stock in your name, and on the day the job is done to my satisfaction, you get it. How soon can you leave?"

" As soon as I can pack a grip."

"Good I Report to my office at ten to-morrow morning, we'll spend two hours on the plans, then you can take the night train west. Know anybody you want as assistant.  Of course, he'll have to have technical training."

Marsh thought fast. There was a young fellow in the office— Abraham Levy, who slaved eighteen hours a day.

"There's Levy, in the office," he said. "French Jew, and smart as a steel trap. He's working half the night, over a correspondence course, and getting more out of it than ninety per cent, other men would get. Give me Levy, and I'll answer for results."

"All right." Hammond rose. " Now, my boy— one thing that lies outside your routine instructions, Elsa is a bit run down from a winter on the go in New York and she's going to spend a few months in the Southwest with me. I'll take personal charge of that Colorado River bridge, and when I'm compelled to come East, she'll remain. Just where we'll stay is not decided— but here's the point. I want you to run a clean camp; get me? You can't make a model of it, but you have to run it clean."

"Thank you, Mr. Hammond— it shall be done."

Their hands gripped, and John Marsh went home.

2: Mormon Valley

"DIEU!" BREATHED Abraham Levy, as their automobile halted in the jaws of the pass where the dam was to stand, and he gazed out at the Mormon Valley desert with Marsh beside him. "This isn't a valley after all! Mort d'Enfer! It's plain desert!"

They left the car and its driver, and tramped up the hillside above the bowl where the reservoir was one day to form a lake. The depressing solitude of the eternal desert rested on all things like a blanket.

"It's wonderful!" Levy's sombre eyes glowed with strange lights. "You've given me all this, John Marsh— and I'm grateful."

"Given you— what?"

"This!" Levy's hand swept around the horizon.

"To-day it is desert. To-morrow we build and live; the next day we create! It is the dream of an idealist "

"It's hard work," and Marsh grunted. "And it's going to make us or break us, Abe!"

John Marsh did not lack the vision which inspired his assistant, but he did not talk about it. The dream of constructing, of creating, was his in full measure ; but combined with this, and a part, of it, was an almost savage reckoning with the practical end of the affair.

IT WAS a month after Marsh's arrival that Ashby, chief of construction on the big Colorado bridge job, came unheralded to Mormon Valley.

Left by his auto on the edge of camp, the engineer surveyed the scene in astonishment, finding neatness and order where he had expected the opposite. The laborers' shacks stood in a long double row, dominated by the company store. On the opposite side of the huge bowl stood headquarters, also hastily built shacks, while a concrete building to replace these was in course of construction.

Water was being produced in abundance, and concrete mixers rattled and pounded, while at the edges of the great natural excavation gangs of men were busily at work excavating for the massive walls which would complete nature's original job. Ashby wandered on, critical yet uncriticizing; turning a corner of the hill trail, he came on a man standing idle and surveying the work below.

At first glance Ashby did not know him— robust, burned black, corded sinewy neck and arms, khaki clad.

"Marsh! Pon my word, I didn't recognize you!"

"Glad to see you, Ashby ! Well, I guess the desert has changed me a bit. Come over for inspection?"

''Don't call it that, Marsh; a visit, that's all. If―"

" Wait!" Still in the act of shaking hands,

Marsh halted the other and turned toward the group of men below. "Look down there, Ashby. It's my assistant, Levy; he's engaged in forming his own status here, and in settling the jests of our boss foreman, Dan Kelly. Dan is the big fellow with the fiery red thatch — see him ? He doesn't like Jews. There, he's telling Abe about it now, I told Abe to plant that wagon spoke handy and take no chances—"

He broke off, leaned forward, and uttered a subdued exclamation.

"Got him square over the ear — did you ever see a man go down quicker ? That Levy is chain lightning!"

"Either Levy kills him with that club," observed Ashby dryly, "or Kelly kills your assistant later!"

Marsh laughed.

"You lose. Nothing can break Kelly's skull; I know, because we had a grand fight with all rules barred, and I had to trip and kick him behind the ear to lay him cold. Now he's my lifelong friend, and he'll be the same with Abe— especially as Abe is from France originally."

Many of the laborers, in Mexican fashion, had brought their families along, and these lived in one quarter of the residence street. For the others had been erected a long dining room, which with the adjacent kitchens were in charge of Mrs. Dan Kelly. Across the depression, however, Marsh had established his own officers' mess under the supervision of Lan Ying, a Celestial desert rat who had turned out to be a fair cook.

Here dwelt and messed, besides Marsh and Levy, the other upper-crust men. Randall and Crowther were two broken-down surveyors, men of education, but ruined by drink, who had drifted into camp and now held positions of minor importance. The bookkeeper, Sanders, was a first-stage consumptive from Chicago— a little, old, wonderfully efficient man whose errors were nil. Last but not least, was Dundas, the storekeeper.

Dundas entered the mess room after the others, except Levy, were assembled. He was a large man of indeterminate age; extraordinarily handsome, apparently a gentleman, ever dressed with scrupulous care, he was the mystery of the camp. He had applied for the position which he held, and filled it to a nicety— yet he was very evidently more than a storekeeper. A silent man, he said little, and Marsh asked no questions.

Presently Levy came in, to be greeted by a general grin, for his recent business with Kelly was no secret.

"Did you put the foreman in the hospital?" queried Ashby, on shaking hands.

"Mon Dieu, no!" In times of stress, Levy's expletives assumed quite a French touch. " Dan Kelly is one good sport, and we have shaken hands. Thank the good God I shall have no more to fight!"

There was a general laugh. Marsh, however, caught in the pale, steely-blue eyes of Ralph Dundas an oddly satirical gleam. There was something in those steely eyes that Marsh did not fancy.

Luncheon over, Marsh, Levy and Ashby forgathered with the construction plans, and for half an hour Ashby went over figures and drawings. At length he laid them aside.

" Please don't think me patronizing he said quietly, lighting his pipe the while. " I am older in experience than you chaps — that's all. I don't think you quite realize what you're doing to this work here."

"Eh?" Marsh's eyes glanced out swiftly. "What have we done wrong?"

Ashby laughed.

"Nothing— and everything ! You two fellows have taken over a job that's absurdly easy from a technical ground, and have made it a work of art!"

ct Is that praise or blame ? " demanded Levy.

"It's very hearty congratulation, youngster ! You're not wasting material, yet you've not planned so much as a retaining wall that's not got an artistic touch to it!"

"That's Abe's doing," said Marsh. "He's a fiend for appearances."

"But it couldn't be done without your solid mathematics!" cried Levy warmly.

"Boys, you're all right!" Ashby exclaimed. "Add ten per cent, to the strength of those dam buttresses, Marsh, and your figures will be absolutely safe. One thing more: Look out for the shoulder of that south hill, where you're planning to base the second largest wall; look out for the geological formation there, since you may have to blast away the shoulder in order to reach bed rock. But see here; this is only the start, you know! I don't want to horn into your game, Marsh, but if you don't mind the question, what kind of a camp do you propose to run here ? "

"Clean," Marsh answered at last. "Is that what you mean?"

Ashby nodded.

"On my way up here I dropped onto some information."

"Spill it!" Marsh tipped back his chair, his eyes narrowing.

"There's an exodus on the way here, for the papers have published the company's general plans. There'll be a town here some day— see the idea? Meantime, you'll have several hundred laborers whose wages make good picking. Well, I have reason to believe that a regularly organized expedition of vice is marching to the assault, my son."

"Let 'em march," and John Marsh chuckled. "We own this land— they don't!"

Ashby glanced up at the big map of the company's property, which hung on the wall.

"Where's the State line?" he asked briefly.

Marsh met the frowning gaze of Levy with dismayed comprehension.

"That hadn't occurred to us," he returned slowly. "Of course, they can establish themselves over the line."

"The worst part of it all is, Marsh, that the exodus is organised. I don't know who's behind it— nor does any one else ; yet it seems, from what I gathered, that a town is to be built there, a regular town of organized vice, which in course of time will become the town of Mormon Valley. The promoter or promoters will then eliminate the vice, and grow rich on real estate!"

Ashby rose.

" However, run your own game, and here's luck! I must be getting back. By the way, Marsh, Mr. Hammond arrives on our job the end of next week. I presume he'll be running over here later on."

"Thanks!" Marsh nodded, a gleam in his gray eyes. " I'll get right to work on a place for him."

THAT AFTERNOON Marsh and his assistant faced facts, but found no remedy.

"Look here, Abe, whoever starts that vice city will clean up a fortune — not on booze and its allies, but on real estate ! After annexing our pay roll, they'll annex the benefits of our work, by having their town established over there."

"We can shut 'em out of electricity and water," said Levy.

"They can drill for their own water, and— by my hand, Abe! You've hit it!" For a long moment Marsh sat staring up at the map on the wall. Then he sprang to his feet. "Call Randall, will you? or rather, send Lan Ying after him!"

A moment later Levy returned hastily.

"What's the idea ? " he exclaimed.

"Something you'll have to keep secret— even from Randall!" Marsh faced him, gray eyes, blazing. " We'll let these fellows go ahead across the line, Abe, but we'll have our men survey a road through the hills, and lay off a gang to grade it roughly— a road to nowhere ! Now look here, at the map."

He eagerly pointed to the corner of the company lands that adjoined the reservoir site— a flat inlet of the desert, around the corner of the huge butte which would form one support of the dam.

"Here's the place, Abe! Randall can run the road lines to here, without knowing why— and when we're ready, well put up a town of our own! Get that, hombre ? You'll do the platting yourself, and I'll help ; keep the plans secret, get everything ready, and then— biff ! Throw the whole force at the work and get it done at one blow! Can we do it?"

Levy's eyes widened in comprehension.

" Diantre!" he swore vehemently. " We can! We'll have electricity and water there to burn- direct from the dam! We— but here's Randall."

Randall entered— a quiet man of middle age, gnarled with desert work. Marsh swung around and motioned him to a chair.

"Randall, I understand that back of our property, just across the State line, there are to be some saloons established. We can't prevent it— and how's it going to affect us?"

The surveyor rubbed his neck, and shifted his gaze to the window.

"I dunno," he said lifelessly. "Reckon I know how it hit me— damn it, we can't get away from it! I'm no liar, Mr. Marsh; nor is Crowther. We're partners, sink or swim, and while this camp's dry we've been dry. If it goes wet— well, you know the answer,"

" And you'd prefer to keep it dry ? "

" If we could— but we can't. The booze gets in, sir. It just gets in."

Marsh nodded, understanding the man's attitude perfectly, and turned to Levy.

"Shall we go out and see about that line we want surveyed?"

They left the office in silence. As they passed the dining room, Lan Ying appeared in the doorway and waved a dish towel at Marsh.

"Hey! Missee Malse! You step along me one minute."

Marsh strode to the doorway and took an object which Lan Ying extended with the comment that he had found it under the luncheon table. It was a small photograph, and as he gazed at it, John Marsh felt a strange sense of incredulity— a numbing clutch at his heartstrings.

For the photograph was set in a thin silver frame, and on the under side of the frame was scratched the name "R. Dundas." The face of the photograph was the face which had haunted him during the past month— the face of the girl whom he had met once, whose hand he had clasped once, never to forget— Elsa Hammond, younger but unmistakable!

Ridding his assistant take charge of Randall and the proposed work, Marsh abruptly turned aside and took his way across the hollow toward the store, leaving the other two staring after him.

Dundas was in the front of the store, and at Marsh's nod he swung outside.

"I believe you lost something in the mess room this noon, Dundas," said Marsh quietly. "A photograph. Can you identify it by name?"

The words carried a distinct shock to the other man. For an instant the mask of Dundas was stripped away; his hand shot to his pocket, and his coolly handsome face suddenly leaped into life. Some emotion had bitten into him, and had bitten deeply.

"Damned careless of me!" he ejaculated. "Photograph of a lady, Marsh. An old— an old friend of mine in the East."

"Her name ? "

"Eh ? What the devil "

"Don't flare up," said Marsh. "I happen to know her, that's all, and I want you to identify the picture before I return it."

The blue eyes were very steady on his. but they were filled with so tense a light of anger that Marsh was amazed. Then, unexpectedly, Dundas laughed. In mirth, even more than in repose, the masterful character of the man made itself felt.

"Don't be a silly ass, Marsh! The photograph has a silver frame, and on the under rim is scratched R. Dundas. I think that's identification enough."

Marsh could not do otherwise than hand over the picture. Dundas nodded, thanked him, and turned into the store.

Two days later came Colonel Zadkiel Newgate.

A big man he was, big and black; beard-black of cheek, dressed in tailored black from scarf to heels, with a great diamond sparkling at his throat and another on his hand. His deep black eyes were set close on either side of a curved and predatory beak, and from beneath his wide-brimmed black hat flowed waves of raven hair. Such was the man who sought out Marsh.

"My name, suh, is Zadkiel Newgate, late colonel on the pussonal staff of the Geo'gia governah, suh!" he announced, in a pronounced Southern accent. "Ahe you, suh, Mr. Marsh?"

"That, sir, is my name," returned Marsh gravely, taking the extended hand.

"May we speak in private, Mr. Marsh?" The colonel produced cigars. Nodding, Marsh bit at a weed and walked away from the staring Mexican laborers.

"Well, Colonel Newgate ? " he inquired, turning and facing his visitor.

"I have come, suh, on a delicate mission," announced the other. "I wish to ask if you, suh, will grant me a concession, of co'se in return fo' a financial―"

"What kind of a concession ? "

"One, suh, fo' the pu'pose of impahting amusement to the vulgah crowd." The colonel swept his hand toward the nearest group of workmen.

"This camp is dry, if that's what you mean," said Marsh. "It remains dry."

The colonel winked one predatory eye.

"I may say, suh, that the financial consideration involved is in the sum of five thousand dollahs, suh―"

Marsh caught sight of the red thatch of Dan Kelly passing, and hailed the foreman.

" Dan, this is Colonel Newgate. He has just offered me five thousand dollars for the privilege of selling liquor to our workmen. You will kindly point out to him the boundaries of our land, and impress on him the lamentable fact that if he or any of his friends intrude further on such errands, we'll put 'em in a mixer and wash their souls clean. That's all. Good morning, colonel!"

Half an hour later, Kelly reappeared, still grinning.

"Boss," he said, with a shake of the head, "that omadhaun is the Ould Nick himself! God bless us all! They's trucks out yonder, and workmen, and they're buildin' a shantytown out behint the property line in Californy!"

"Thank you, Dan. We're helpless, in that case. Just do your best to keep liquor out of camp."

So for the present, Marsh dismissed the matter; he was too busy even to go forth and view the new Gomorrah— Colonel Newgate's town of Mormon Valley, California.

Late into each night, Marsh and Levy worked over their secret plans for the town of Mormon Valley, Nevada. They had plenty to keep them busy in this respect, and also in the line of regular duty. A comfortable shack was made ready for the Hammonds, and the work progressed steadily— but trouble was in the air.

At length, one noon, Dan Kelly invaded the officers' mess with definite information.

"Boss, where it come from, dommed if I know!" he stated, standing in the doorway and addressing Marsh. " But they's whisky — I can smell it in them greaser shacks ! The truck dhriver says the rules don't apply to truck dhrivers!"

" Oh, don't they!" snapped Marsh, rising.

Levy winked at the others, and, a moment later, led them forth to witness the proceedings.

When they were gone, Dundas stood in the door of the mess shanty, and, with a pair of binoculars to his eyes, scrutinized the road that came down through the low desert hills. Presently he turned back to the table, his lips compressed in a thin line, his pale-blue eyes very cold and hard, and hurriedly finished his meal.

Meantime, Marsh and Kelly found the truck driver in question seated outside the men's mess house, with a crowd of Mexicans grouped around him.

"What's this I hear, Valdez? That you have brought whisky into camp, declaring that my rules are not for you to obey?"

The man rose.

"No, sir— I said the rules did not apply to truck drivers."

"You knew better," declared Marsh quietly. " Go over to Mr. Sanders and get your time, Valdez. Now, men," and Marsh turned to the others, "Valdez has given some of you whisky. Where is it?"

There was no insubordination. Three men produced half-empty flasks, which they passed forward. Marsh threw them against the house.

"Now, men— after this, take care ! Whoever has liquor in his possession on this property will lose his job."

He was interrupted by a sudden snarl from Valdez.

"What you mean? Am I fired?"

"Exactly."

"Maybe," and into the swarthy face crept a sneer, "maybe you have Dan Kelly put me off, like you did the big black man— Colonel Newgate ! Maybe you afraid yourself, eh?"

Marsh's hand leaped out, caught the shoulder of Valdez, and jerked the man forward.

"Go to the store and get your time!" he snapped. "Then hike."

His answer was a rush — Valdez meant fight !

A vicious, cunning fighter, Valdez aimed for the body alone. A good forty pounds lighter, Marsh was borne back and swept off his feet by the sheer weight of the man's rush. He fell, with Valdez on top, and the two men whirled over and over in the dust.

So keen and tense was the interest, that no one observed an automobile which drew up in the road, thirty feet away, its occupants staring at the scene.

Marsh rolled clear of his opponent and sprang erect ; he caught the rising Valdez with a right swing that knocked the man six feet away, and, disregarding Dan Kelly's yell of " Take the boots to him, lad!" leaped after Valdez with fists clenched. Before he could land the finishing blow, Valdez came up within his arms and clinched savagely.

The clinch saved Marsh, for the other man had no notion of infighting. Valdez tried to break from that desperate clinch, but could not. The fists of Marsh beat up in choppy blows that had the force and regularity of a pile driver; the two men stood almost motionless in the dust, but speedily a choking cry broke from Valdez, who flung wide his arms. Marsh's fist came up and drove home— and Valdez fell to one knee. He looked up, gasping, speechless, and raised an arm as if to shield himself.

" All right," panted Marsh, turning. "Dan  Take this fellow over to Sanders, then see that he gets out of camp, will you? I―"

A yell warned him and he ducked — barely in time. Valdez had come up from the ground like a rubber ball, a knife gleaming in his hand !

It was over, in a flash. One of the Mexicans, perhaps having anticipated such action, threw out a jagged chunk of rock that struck Valdez squarely in the cheek; the man fell motionless, insensible.

Marsh stooped and picked up the knife.

"Thanks, my friend— whoever you were!" he said, facing the Mexicans. " I'll revise orders, Dan! Get Doctor Weld!"

"Here I am, Mr. Marsh," and the surgeon came forward, kneeling over Valdez. Then another voice fell upon the ears of Marsh — a voice that caused him to whirl in amazement.

"Bless — my— soul ! Marsh, is this you? What does this rough-house mean?"

Marsh faced Clinton Hammond ; and seeing the automobile in the road, understood that Hammond had come upon him in an evil moment.

"By cripes!" roared Dan Kelly, in his vast mirth, quite ignorant of whom this visitor might be. "By cripes ! It manes that the lad is runnin' this here works, it does ! Which same was generally accepted before, but is now a matter o' bare bald fact, mister!"

"Oh!" Clinton Hammond's eyes twinkled in comprehension, and his hand came forth. "I see! And that's exactly what he's here for, my man. Marsh, glad to see you!"

" I guess you saw me," and Marsh chuckled. His gaze swept up to the automobile and paused in consternation. "Great Scott ! You haven't ladies with you?"

"Sure! Elsa and a friend — hold on! Where are you going?"

"For a wash," flung Marsh over his shoulder, "And clothes."

He made a running exit from the scene.

Twenty minutes later, bearing no visible marks of his recent encounter, John Marsh shook hands with Elsa Hammond and her friend, a by no means unattractive young lady by the name of Virginia Stevenson.

"I'm awfully sorry you came— just when you did," said Marsh, reddening as he met the clear gaze of Elsa Hammond. "Unfortunately―"

"Oh, we've heard about it!" and Miss Stevenson laughed. "Don't offer excuses, please ! I always did want to see a real fight ! And when that man flew at you with the knife, you should have heard Elsa scream!"

"I didn't!" disclaimed Miss Hammond quickly. "You screamed yourself!"

" We all screamed," and Hammond turned to them with a chuckle. " Marsh, I certainly did the right thing when I put you two on this job!"

Marsh and Levy together stood confused, speechless. Hammond slapped them on the back with a ringing laugh.

"All right— I'll not torment you! Good work, both of you ; this place looks fine, and I've had an excellent report from Ashby. When do we eat?"

An hour later, Marsh and Clinton Hammond stood together watching the work of construction. Finding no criticism, Marsh knew that his work was good.

"What's that aggregation of shanties we passed just before getting here?" said the older man abruptly. " Looked like saloons and worse, Marsh."

Marsh nodded. "Yes, sir. It's just over the California line." He told of the visit of Colonel Newgate. "So far, we can't touch the scoundrel. I'm having notices posted now, warning all intruders off our property, and I've written asking that the sheriff from Las Vegas, the nearest Nevada county seat, come over here and make me a deputy. We can't keep California clean, but we'll keep this camp clean."

"That's all right. Fight 'em, and I'll back you up!"

Later in the afternoon, Marsh showed the two young ladies over the works; and, not without a brooding anticipation, conducted them to the store. Somewhat to his surprise, Dundas emerged from the doorway, smiling, and advanced with outstretched hand.

"Why— Miss Hammond! What on earth brings you here?"

" Ralph ! Upon my word!"

Miss Hammond shook Lands enthusiastically, and introduced Miss Stevenson. Marsh stood by, making no secret of his amazement; whereupon he learned that Dundas and Miss Hammond had been friends at college, that Dundas had been "out of the world" for three years, and that no end of people back East were "just dying" to know where he was. Dundas corroborated this with a nod and a glance at Marsh that told of malicious pleasure.

" Yes— had to come to this country for my health," he said. "Then I met with financial reverses; in short, I am now a storekeeper and taking pride in my work!"

" Why are you doing it?" asked Miss Hammond.

"To eat," and Dundas laughed heartily. "I've got some other enterprises that will enable me to go home a rich man within a year, Elsa. Until then, however, I must work."

Clinton Hammond strode up, shook hands with Dundas without displaying any great enthusiasm, and presently the party of inspection moved on.

It proved that Hammond himself was returning to Pahrock and the Colorado the next day, but would leave Elsa and Miss Stevenson here indefinitely. Conditions at the camp of the Colorado job were very
unpleasant. He arranged to have horses sent over, and Mrs. Kelly consented to come up and keep house for the two girls.

"What's this new road that Randall is working on?" demanded Hammond that night, while going over the plans.

Marsh, having debated whether or not to reveal all he knew, had decided against it.

"We'll use that road," he responded truthfully, "to bring down supplies without passing through Mormon Valley. I'm going to shunt Colonel Newgate off the map if possible."

Thus closed the day whereon the two fair denizens of Mormon Valley, Nevada, made their arrival. That there were other and less fair denizens, but also in the feminine plural, at Mormon Valley, California, was a fact rumored throughout the camp ; and the next day being Saturday, Marsh in the morning summoned to him Dan Kelly and Crowther.

"I take it," he said quietly, "that you two men are not yet under the spell of our friend Colonel Newgate. From remarks here and there I gather that he is to have a grand opening to-night, and our men will probably be on hand to contribute their pay to him."

"Not all," said Dan, shaking his head. "Them byes in the married row is steady ones, boss. Them greaser women is hellcats on the poor divils! They'll stay to home, I'm thinkin'."

"Select a few of them, then, you two— and search every man returning across the line. If any are bringing liquor, fire 'em on the spot. That's all!"

Twenty-eight drunk and unlucky gamblers lost their money and their jobs that night. So far, it seemed to Marsh as if he were winning every round, with his town-site project in reserve as a final crusher. Marsh, a few days later, was constituted a deputy sheriff and the company's property was definitely closed to all outsiders.

3: Colonel Newgate Entertains

ELSA HAMMOND and Virginia Stevenson made of their abode a pleasant oasis of civilization for the camp officers. Every evening some manner of entertainment was under way, and during the long days the two girls rode or played tennis on an improvised court. Miss Stevenson was an ardent art student, and spent much time with her canvases, but Elsa Hammond seemed never to tire of watching the construction work, throwing into it something of her father's keen ability and energy.

The days passed swiftly, winged with labor, and as they passed, Marsh was ever more aware of a tensity rising betwixt him and Ralph Dundas. It was a thing of silence, not of words. Dundas seemed a welcome guest at the Hammond cottage as were the others.

The activities of Colonel Newgate were bearing fruit. Accidents increased greatly among the workmen, as did fighting, and stabbing affrays only ended when Marsh confiscated all the weapons in camp.

On a Sunday afternoon, when Dundas was not in evidence, Marsh and Elsa Hammond were riding over Randall's new road; Marsh, in response to her inquiries, set forth frankly the damage that Newgate was doing.

"These Mexican laborers don't seem such a bad lot," said the girl reflectively. "Why don't you try to offset the trouble by encouraging them to save money? You might agree to save a certain proportion of their wages, to be applied on the purchase of company land when the work is done!"

"That's not a bad notion, Miss Hammond; but I've no authority to do such a thing."

"I'll give you the authority! What does it matter who buys the land? If―"

"Then write your father, if you will," said Marsh soberly. "Put it up to him, and if you can get him to assent to the scheme, we'll try it!"

"On condition you'll appeal to Newgate to meet you halfway — to sell liquor, if he must, in limited quantities to each man."

Marsh assented, merely because Elsa Hammond asked it. He knew the utter futility of such an appeal, but because it was her wish, he set himself to face Newgate.

The opportunity came unexpectedly, as opportunities do. Barely had they returned home when, as Marsh was unsaddling, Crowther came up wearing a troubled look. Miss Hammond had gone within the cottage.

"What's the matter, Crowther?"

"Well, sir, I'm afraid you'll have to get another man to fill my job."

"Eh?" Marsh straightened up, staring at the surveyor. "What's the matter with it?"

"Nothing. But you know Randall and me are pardners, and we — well, we've been in this here camp quite a spell, Mr. Marsh. We ain't saints, you know."

"Maybe not, but you're mighty useful men. Where's Randall?"

"That's just the hob of it, sir. He's gone over to shantytown," for so Newgate's collection of shacks was termed, "and I reckon I'll go along too."

"So you're quitting your job for a grand spree and a move somewhere else?" Marsh eyed the man in contempt, that suddenly changed to understanding and warm sympathy as he discerned the struggle in Crowther's desert-seared face. "Here, old man! You don't want to quit— you're just loyal to your pardner, eh ? Well, hang on a bit. I'm riding over to the town this minute, and I'll send Randall home if you think it'll do him any good. Would it?"

"I— I reckon it would, Mr. Marsh. With me, I kind o' tag around where Randall goes ; but if he thought anybody else reckoned him of enough account to go pullin' him out of trouble, why, it'd be a power o' good to him!"

"All right. Stick around and watch out for him, will you? Think he's drunk?"

"Who— him? Lord, no! He's only been gone an hour. He won't be drunk till to-morrow some time!"

Marsh nodded, swung up into the saddle, and cantered off, leaving Crowther staring after him in rugged emotion.

The buildings before which Marsh drew rein were unpainted but imposing, huddled in a hollow of the desert hills as though transported there by a magician's wand. The Mormon Valley Hotel was the central structure— a large affair which on close approach disclosed an anatomy of timbers covered by tarpaper, tin, and painted canvas. As Marsh dismounted, the black-clad figure of Colonel Newgate appeared in the doorway. The colonel was beaming, and advanced with outstretched hand. Marsh forced himself to shake hands.

"I rode over to have a talk with you, colonel, if you can spare the time. First, however, I want to get hold of one of my surveyors who's here— Randall by name. I presume you'll have no objection to my sending him home?"

To his surprise, even to his amazement, Colonel Newgate clapped him heartily on the shoulder. The predatory black eyes twinkled.

"Suh, this heah camp is at your command! Enteh, suh!"

Marsh entered, an ironical smile tugging at his  lips. He found himself in a large room adorned  by a bar and card tables. In the corner was a roulette wheel around which was a three-deep crowd of Mexicans. The dance hall was adjoining, as evinced by the strains of a tinny piano and a squeaky violin, voices, and the shuffle of feet. Colonel Newgate indicated a faro table, from which Randall was rising.

"There, suh, is your friend!"

Marsh faced Randall, and smiled slightly.

"Take my horse and look up Crowther, will you ? " he said. " Two of those cuts on the new road are away off level, and Crowther wants to go over 'em with you before dark.''

Without further heed to the man, who departed at once, Marsh swung about to Newgate.

"Well, colonel, where can we have a chat?"

Newgate beckoned him to a door at the end of the bar, which opened into a room plainly furnished, with a large safe in the corner. Newgate shoved chairs to a center table.

"Be seated, suh ! May I offer you cigars?"

"No, thanks." Marsh met the predatory, glittering eyes, and set forth his case bluntly. " Colonel Newgate, I've come over to find if there isn't some way we can get together on the liquor question. If you would be willing to establish some rule about selling each man so much whisky and no more―"

"Entirely, suh!" Newgate's features beamed amazing delight. "Now, Mr. Marsh, I am not a drinking man myself, and I respect the scruples of othehs, suh; will you join me in a bottle of gingeh ale, suh? Let us discuss this matteh in amicability."

Marsh nodded. Newgate went to the door and opened it,

"Two bottles of gingeh ale!" he boomed, and returned to his chair.

Marsh began to wonder if he had been utterly mistaken about this man.

Doctor Weld, Levy, and Marsh were expected at the Hammond cottage that evening, for a chafing-dish supper. Sunset came, but no Marsh turned up; At that instant came a knock at the door. The surgeon opened, to show Ralph Dundas at the threshold. Dundas bowed slightly.

"Why, where have you been all day?" demanded Miss Stevenson from the kitchen. " We've not seen a thing of you, stingy hermit!"

"I've been communing with the desert," and Dundas laughed gayly. "But may I speak with you a moment, Mr. Levy ? Pardon me, ladies―"

"Sure ! Excuse me a moment, Miss Hammond."

Levy came to the door, and with a jerk of the head Dundas beckoned him out. "You haven't seen Marsh, have you ? We've missed him."

"Yes, that's just the trouble. Marsh has been over at the town, and I just now saw him coming back. He's outside camp, reeling drunk, with Colonel Newgate on one side of him and on the other one of Newgate's dance-hall girls. You'd better get Doctor Weld."

Levy called the surgeon, and the three men strode away past the office. Behind them, however, undeceived by Levy's casual pretexts, the two girls stood at the cottage door and watched the trail in frowning uncertainty.

After all, it seemed that Dundas had been mistaken. Instead of Marsh coming by the upper trail along the rim of the basin, by which Dundas set forth with Levy and Weld, he came across tho basin itself, evidently having paraded through the camp quarters. Thus they failed to meet and stop him, turning back too late as they sighted his pitiful progress.

Swearing great oaths in French, Levy turned and ran back, saw the two figures at the cottage door, and knew that the worst had happened. He met Marsh by the office, within easy earshot of the Hammond cottage.

Marsh, however, did not know him— reeling, stumbling through the sand, and mumbling to himself, Marsh knew nothing at all. Levy caught his friend's arm from the clutch of the painted woman, and half flung the reeling engineer to the embrace of Doctor Weld. Then he faced Colonel Newgate with blazing eyes and clenched fists.

"What — what d'you mean by this?" he cried hoarsely. " You damned rogue! How―"

The colonel drew himself up with pompous dignity.

"Suh," he declaimed, "kindly undehstand at the outset my position ! Mr. Marsh came to my hotel, suh, to send home a man named Randall who was there. He remained, suh, to speak privately with nie. It is not my province, suh, to control the passions of men. Mr. Marsh desired to drink, and he drank. Out of the goodness of my heart, I fetched him home

"You lie!" cried Levy brokenly. "Marsh never drinks! You lie!"

The dance-hall woman had slunk away into the gathering shadows. Colonel Newgate drew himself up, bowed toward the Hammond cottage, and spoke with unction.

"On a Sunday evening, suh, and in the presence of ladies, I do not choose to resent your insinuations."

In a gust of passion, Levy flung himself forward. His fist spatted against the mouth of Newgate, who went staggering back. Swift as light, the hand of the colonel flashed down and then up. There was the quick, sharp bark of a revolver, and Levy, spinning around, flung out his arms and fell motionless.

IT WAS NOT UNTIL the following morning that John Marsh wakened out of a deep slumber. As he stirred, a splitting headache quelled him again ; but at the motion he found Doctor Weld leaning over him.

"Hello!" he muttered feebly. "Great Scott, but I sure have a head! Where am I? "

Weld drew up a chair, sat down, and told him where he was and how he had gotten there. Weld called a spade a spade.

"You fairly reeked with whisky," he concluded.

"See here, doc!" Marsh raised himself to one
elbow, staring. " What's all this ? You say Newgate — why, man, it's a damned lie ! I never had a tiling to drink except a bottle of ginger ale ! And Newgate said I was drunk— the cursed hound!"

"To all appearances you were drunk," said the surgeon calmly. "But that's not all!"

He went on to tell of the shooting. Levy was not dead, nor was he near death ; but he was in an extremely serious condition with a bullet clean through his body. The two girls had insisted on taking him in and upon nursing him, of which work they both had some knowledge.

"And Newgate!" exclaimed Marsh sharply. "They got him?"

Weld shook his head.

" No. He ran for it, Marsh. He has skipped clean, by automobile, and whether he'll be quickly located or not is not yet known."

Marsh's gaze bit into that of the surgeon.  See here, Weld ! I'm no liar. Last night I drank a single glass of ginger ale; that's all I can remember. Newgate doped me— don't you see! The cursed dog meant―"

Weld determinedly shoved him back on the bunk.

"Lie down, Marsh!" ho exclaimed sharply. "I believe you, of course. You stank abominably of whisky, but I remember now that it came from your clothes. By gracious, old man, I expect you're right! Newgate was trying to discredit you, sure enough. But— Randall has been hanging around, waiting to see you. If you keep quiet, I'll send him in."

"I'll keep quiet until he goes," said Marsh, his face drawn into tense lines. "Then I'm up and to business, doc!"

Weld shrugged his shoulders, and left the room.

In a moment Randall entered and came over to the bunk. Randall flushed.

"Well, sir, I found out somethin' over there from hearin' them fellows talk. Didn't you think that Colonel Newgate was back o' that whole layout? Well, he ain't."

"Eh?" Marsh stared up at the man. "Who is, then?"

"I dunno, sir. But I gathered for certain that Newgate ain't the big gun over there. He's just playin' to be the boss, prob'ly to hide whoever is the real works."

Marsh nodded frowningly. Suddenly he looked up at Randall and flung a keen question.

"It's no secret that I was brought home in a disgraceful condition last night? What do the men say?"

"It ain't up to them to talk, sir. You was alone with Newgate, I gather, and what went on I don't know. But I'll gamble it was nothin' very straight, with him!"

Presently Marsh was up and dressed ; food put some heart into him, and, feeling much more Like himself, he left the shack and crossed to the cottage of the two girls. At his knock, Elsa Hammond opened the door— and did not ask him to enter.

"How is Levy?" demanded Marsh.

"He is in very bad shape, Mr. Marsh," she answered at length. "You have— heard?"

In her eyes, and in the indefinable quality of her voice, Marsh read that she thought the worst of him. He smiled faintly.

"I have heard all, Miss Hammond," he said quietly. "You have not judged me already, I hope ? Last night I was drugged, not drunk."

He paused, seeing her suddenly shrink from him, pain in her eyes.

"Please— please do not refer to the subject again!" she said hesitatingly, yet with a decision and finality in her whole manner. "It is most unfortunate, Mr. Marsh, that we ourselves saw your arrival. I do not wish to discuss the subject further; after what we saw last night, there is no room for argument."

She closed the door and vanished. John Marsh turned away heartsick. Alone in his office, he wrestled with his problem, and found no solution.

Levy, who would stand by him through thick and thin, was gone. Newgate, whose forced confession might clear him utterly, was gone and might or might not be captured. Bitterly as he might deny this charge, Marsh saw that his own position was not enviable. Marsh realized clearly what had most deeply stung those two girls who had seen him brought home. The presence of that dance-hall girl, entirely unnecessary as an assistant, had been an infernally clever touch— by whom ?

Who was the unknown enemy?  Some one, evidently, who did not desire to be known, and who had used Newgate as a shield.

"Somebody must have concluded that Levy and I were dangerous," reflected Marsh. "We may have said an incautious word, or Randall's work on the new road may have led the enemy to guess what we were doing around the corner of the hill! Great Scott— could that be it? "

He felt certain that the truth had flashed to his mind with that thought!

Raging with his own helplessness, Marsh left the office and went down to the work. He summoned all the foremen, and the harsh bitterness of spirit that was upon him did not lessen as he caught the glances and sly laughter of the workmen.

"My friends," he said curtly, "the occurrence of last night was unfortunate. You may think what you like ; but I'm telling you as man to man that if a single word on the subject comes to my ears, if anybody thinks it's smart to hand me any talk, I'll beat up that man and kick him out— proper! I am not here to make any explanations. That's all."

They trooped away, Dan Kelly flinging Marsh a cheerful nod and grin as he went.

Marsh went to the store and found it in charge of Sanders. To his inquiry, the bookkeeper returned that Dundas had gone to Pahrock, in the endeavour to apprehend Newgate. The storekeeper ought to be back in camp by evening.

"If Newgate isn't found," thought Marsh, as he forced himself to take up the work on the giant retaining walls, "then I've got to face this thing down — and do it boldly. If Newgate is found, I'll force the truth out of him!"

Newgate was not found, however. Dundas returned that afternoon with word that the colonel had vanished completely, but was being diligently sought. He was very respectful, was Dundas, but his chilly eyes swept through Marsh with a satiric glitter which set the engineer raging. He felt that Dundas bated him.

FOR MARSH those were hard days that followed— hard days, during which Levy hung betwixt death and life. The iron drove deep into him, and rusted, and the rust stain was good for his manhood. He needed iron in his system— the iron of repression, of suffering, of endurance. It gave eye and voice a new command, a new authority. It deepened the strong roots of his soul; it brought out his sharp loneliness, and his self-reliance.

No more was he the companion of the two girls on desert rides or at tennis or intimate suppers; they were very polite, and also very busy with Levy. So Marsh hardly saw them from dawn to dawn.

Indeed, Marsh himself had work and to spare. The pumping machinery had arrived, and heeded to be installed and housed; the retaining walls were slowly rising; the great dam, which was to provide power, was gradually taking shape; there were a myriad of details to be handled every day— and one man to handle them. Further, there was the town-site matter; late into each night Marsh sat working over the plans which Levy had commenced, until at last he tucked away the finished blue prints in the safe to await the moment of action. To the same end, he increased his requisitions of material by degrees, gathering in gradual quantities the necessary building supplies.

Presently the men came to look up to John Marsh with a new manner of awed respect. As though his inner trials had been a consuming fire, his brain was burned clean and clear; with a word, an audacious order, a gesture, he solved the intricacies of the work upon the instant. He installed the machinery with a dexterity which left the machine men agape.

One morning Weld summoned him to the Hammond cottage. Levy was free from fever and had asked for him.

"Diantre!" exclaimed Levy, studying Marsh curiously. "You look ten years older!"

Marsh merely smiled. But Levy, although no word had been said, was quick to perceive the attitude of his two nurses. Later, when he was walking about at brief intervals, he obtained from Dan Kelly the story of what had happened, and pieced it out from other mouths.

Gradually Marsh regained a more normal footing with the two girls, but the old comradeship was gone. When Elsa Hammond went over the work, it was with Dundas or Weld; between Levy and Miss Stevenson had arisen a companionship which drew them much together.

Such was the situation when Clinton Hammond arrived on a Sunday afternoon. He came unexpectedly and briefly, having run over from the Colorado work for the purpose of seeing his " little girl." Marsh, who was in the rear of the store going over the monthly report with Sanders, knew nothing of his chief's arrival until Hammond walked in on him an hour after reaching camp; Levy and Virginia Stevenson accompanied him, and he called Marsh forth curtly enough, to inspect the work accomplished.

Hammond said little, until, when he and Marsh had walked out alone on the crest of the rising dam, he laid his hand on the younger man's shoulder and spoke gravely.

"Marsh, I've learned what's happened here, and I've just this to say: Remember that you are in charge of this work! That's all. Now, tell me about that hill shoulder on the south side."

Was this simple comment to be taken as support or reproof ? When, after Elsa Hammond had returned and borne off her father and Marsh was alone with his assistant, some of his inward queries gained response.

"I told him," said Levy quietly, upon Marsh mentioning what Hammond had said. "I thought it best to give him the straight of it before he got crooked information from — well, from other sources !"

"What sources, Abe?"

"Oh, any of 'em. Dundas, for instance,"

"Eh ? Dundas?"

Levy leaned forward and spoke gravely.

"Marsh, I've been thinking during my lazy interval. Why was it we didn't head you off from the girls that night? Because Dundas led us in the wrong direction. I don't think much of that fellow, and I'd put nothing past him. He doesn't like you."

"Nonsense!" retorted Marsh lightly, but said no more.

That evening there was a gathering in the Hammond cottage ; it was Marsh's first visit in the role of guest since Levy had been shot. Dundas was, of course, present.

In the course of the evening Weld was hurriedly summoned by a Mexican to attend a man hurt in a stabbing affray at Mormon Valley. When the surgeon had departed, Clinton Hammond gave vent to an irritated outburst.

"Confound it! That liquor town is going to play hob with this work, Marsh! If we had only some way to put those crooks out of business "

He paused suddenly, with the uneasiness of one who feels that something amiss has been said. Elsa Hammond glanced at Marsh, with a cruel smile. There was an instant of silence, before Marsh himself made quiet response.

"You're right, Mr. Hammond. If any chance presents itself, I'll take it; but so far it seems that we can do nothing."

Dundas leaned forward, his cool, masterful features intent on Hammond.

"If you say the word," he said casually, " I'll stop that liquor selling myself."

"How do you mean to do it ? " snapped Levy. Dundas did not heed him.

"Yes, how?" repeated Hammond, astonished.

"Simply enough." Dundas relaxed in his chair and held a match to his dead cigar, pausing until the latter was well alight. "I learned some time ago from friends of mine in Sacramento that Mormon Valley was to be established as a post office, in order to avoid sending all our camp mail over from Pahrock. I applied for the job of postmaster, and got it. Now, I can't take that job at any profit to myself; but if you can continue my salary I'll take it like a shot. Do you get the idea ? I want both salaries. So, then, is it worth my salary to you, to make a dry town out of Mormon Valley? If so, just say the word, and after to-night not another drop of liquor is sold there."

"Bless my soul — of course it is !" ejaculated Hammond, staring at him. "But how the devil do you expect to stop it?"

"By force of character, Mr. Hammond! I shall simply order the bars closed and the booze sellers out of the town. You are thinking, I presume, that I have no official right to give such an order; quite correct. I have, however, the nerve to do it— and to back up the play."

So great was the man's actual power, that to none of his auditors did this proposal seem in the least grotesque. Never had the strength of self-repression in Dundas been so clearly felt.

" Bless my soul!" exclaimed Hammond slowly. "If you can do it— go ahead!"

"Then there'll be no more liquor trouble after to-night," said Dundas quietly, as though the fact were now assured.

Marsh left the room unobserved, except by Dundas, who glanced after him half frowningly. Trudging through the soft sand, Marsh crossed the brow of the hill to a great wind-blown and serrated ledge of rock that overlooked the moonlit desert below. He wanted to be alone. Something, perhaps intuition, had whispered a message to his brain.

"Dundas is not without friends, presumably in high places," reflected Marsh. "And he had known the Hammonds somewhat intimately in the East. Did he, then, know who was behind this reclamation project — even when it was a secret ? Yes; he must have known that. The cool rogue! He had the nerve to tell Hammond to his face that before the end of the year he would go East a rich man! He sure did make an investment that promised to pay big dividends— an investment in booze and men and shanties!"

He stared out at the dim desert, a dark flush mounting to his brow, as he mentally pictured the activities of his late storekeeper — whose job would now have to be filled by some one else.

Behind Colonel Newgate, behind this shanty town behind the booze and women and gamblers, and behind the future town-site scheme at which Ashby and Marsh had shrewdly guessed, was Ralph Dundas! Here was the secret enemy, the crafty schemer!

The scheme in itself was in no sense nefarious. It was only logical to suppose that the company, when Hammond's attention should no longer be centered exclusively on the Colorado project, would seize upon its overlooked opportunity for making money; failing this, there was no reason whatever to prevent any one else stepping in and grasping the neglected forelock of chance. Such was business, legitimate business.

But the manner in which Dundas had gone about his scheme— this was what caused the hands of Marsh to clench in grim anger at the very thought !

"In the company's pay, and playing traitor!" he thought hotly. "Not scrupling to divert the pay roll into his own hands through the lowest channels of vice. Perhaps Newgate had orders to kill Levy― who knows ? H'm! No wonder Newgate got away scot-free!"

And now Dundas, laughing in his sleeve, was throwing a gigantic "stall" — for whose benefit? Why was he pretending to march boldly into Mormon Valley and order out the liquor sellers— who were in his pay— unless to shame John Marsh in the eyes of Hammond and his daughter ?

Suddenly a voice broke in upon his thoughts; a voice that told him Elsa Hammond had approached, unheard, in the sand.

"— and if you realty can do it, I'll think it magnificent!" she was saying, in her voice an eagerness that thrilled Marsh wistfully. " But I'm so afraid it will be dangerous!"

The soft laugh of Dundas came to Marsh like the voice of an evil angel in the night.

"Dangerous ? Not a bit of it! But, Elsa— when are you going to listen to me? You know that for years I've always reverenced your memory ; you know that my heart has always been in your keeping— Elsa, when will you "

Marsh rose to his feet confusedly. This eavesdropping was no fault of his — nay, it stung him too deeply !

"Oh, I've no intention of marrying any one, Ralph," and the girl laughed.

"You can't tell me that," broke in the voice of

Dundas. "Elsa, don't you know that the light of love in your eyes, these last weeks here, has been like a biting spur to me!"

Marsh coughed and stepped forward. He saw the two figures just above him.

"I'm very sorry that I happened to be here first," he observed. "I―"

" No, no, Ralph!" The girl seemed to restrain some movement of Dundas. " Come, let's be strolling home," and her arm in his she turned her back to Marsh. " Gracious! This engineer of ours is positively ubiquitous , isn't he?"

They moved off and were gone.

Marsh stood silent, staring into the night. His thoughts moved riotously in wild tumult. So Dundas, the silent, crafty Dundas, loved her; which explained the incident of the photograph! And for "this engineer of ours" she held but scorn, the disdain which bit far deeper than any other feeling, the contempt which ignored utterly!

4: To Ilipah

WITH THE MORNING, Hammond departed to his own work again, leaving orders that the salary of Ralph Dundas was to be continued providing the man made good his word.

The first truck of the morning from Pahrock had brought the mail. Twenty minutes later, Marsh handed his assistant an official notification that hereafter all mail for the construction camp, instead of being handled through Pahrock, would be handled through the newly-established post office of Mormon Valley, California.

"Dieu de Dieu!" ejaculated Levy feelingly. "Stung again! Now everything we get will pass through the hands of our esteemed postmaster."

"Which suggests possibilities!" Marsh sprang to his feet and took from the table a pocket-map of Nevada. "Wait a jiffy, Abe!"

Examining the map as he went, Marsh strode over to the store where Sanders was hard at work.

"See here, old dollars and cents," exclaimed Marsh laughingly, "you're promoted to the job of storekeeper. You'll also retain your old job, and I'll give you an assistant. Now, I presume Mr. Dundas kept an eye on the company's accounts?"

Sanders, meek little man that lie was, removed his spectacles and polished them, very carefully, then looked up with a twinkle in his eye,

"Well, Mr. Marsh, I wouldn't use that exact expression. He was quite particular, however, to check over my figures and the requisition lists."

"Exactly!" Marsh grinned cheerfully as he met the tacit understanding in the gaze of Sanders. " Well, there's to be absolutely nothing doing in that line from now on— get me? Nominally, he retains his position as storekeeper— but if he wants to see any of your accounts, refer him to me and avoid trouble. And when you're sending out requisitions, just hand 'em over to me and we'll have the truck drivers mail them at Pahrock, for the present."

"Very well, sir." No words were necessary. Marsh felt that the other man understood perfectly, and was pleased at the order.

Returning to the office, Marsh spread out his State map on the desk, arid beckoned Levy to his side.

" Look at this, Abe. West of us is Pahrock ; but almost the same distance to the north, over level desert, is Ilipah, on the Las Vegas & Tonopah. I'm going to take our camp Henry to-morrow and go to Ilipah; the flivver can negotiate a road over the desert, and if we don't strike any patches of loose, shifty sand it will be a better road for the trucks than that through the hills to Pahrock."

Levy whistled.

"Going to shift bases, are you ? "

"No— not entirely. But if the road's all right, I'll put one of the trucks on the Ilipah run, and get hold of a man who can drive the Henry each day as a stage and mail carrier. We'll get our extra stuff from Ilipah, for the town of Hammond."

"Eh ?" Levy frowned perplexedly. "You mean— our town?""

"Yes. We'll make its name Hammond. You'll go to Ilipah with me to-morrow, and there take the railroad to Carson City. Rush through an incorporation of the town of Hammond ; if you have to interview the whole legislature, get this town established in a hurry, before any one wakes up to what we're doing! See the postmaster at the capital and arrange to have our mail come through Ilipah by stage here. Get Crowther appointed postmaster here. Then get back on the jump and go to work on the town. Sabé?"

"I sabé fine. We're going to fight?"

"Fight ? " Marsh laughed. " No. We're merely going ahead with the Mormon Valley Company's work, Abe! Does the scheme suit?"

" Suit?" Levy's black eyes glowed with eagerness. " Why, Marsh, it's the dream of a lifetime!"

That afternoon, while Marsh was for the first time trying out the pumping machinery at one of the two artesian wells, Elsa Hammond appeared in the doorway of the half-finished building. Marsh hastily came forward, to meet her coldly level gaze. On swift impulse, he spoke.

" Please, Miss Hammond, allow me to express my regret over last night's unfortunate "

She stayed him with uplifted hand, her voice quite cold.

" I did not come to discuss that, Mr. Marsh ; kindly do not refer to it. We spoke some time ago about urging the laborers to save a portion of their wages toward buying plots of the reclaimed land— you remember?"

"Yes."

"Well, I just bad a note from Mr. Dundas saying that his endeavor had been entirely successful; there will be no more liquor sold over the fine there!" Despite herself, the girl's cheeks reddened slightly. "The gambling cannot be checked, however."

"Probably not," said Marsh, his voice like chilled steel. "The proprietor of that town must make money by some means! Gambling may prove very successful,"

"The proprietor?" Her brows lifted. "To whom do you refer?"

"To whom else than Colonel Newgate!" Marsh shrugged his shoulders. "Well, Miss Hammond, what about the savings-bank idea?"

"I started to say that I asked dad about it last night, and he entirely approves. He has given me and Miss Stevenson authority to act, so we're going to be the bankers and handle the whole business. That is, of course," she added curtly, " subject to your approval."

"Your wish is my law, Miss Hammond," he made slow answer. " If you and Miss Stevenson will undertake this job I think you can do tremendous good ! I'll have notices written in Spanish and posted up, then you can circulate and explain the scheme, if that's agreeable."

"Entirely so, thank you." With a curt nod, Miss Hammond departed.

Marsh and Levy departed at daybreak next morning in the camp flivver ; their trip they explained as one of exploration merely, and they were off before the camp was well awake.

Marsh was keenly elated by the prospect ahead. If he encountered no sinks or old lake basins in the thirty miles to Ilipah the road would be much easier for a truck than that to Pahrock which led through the desert hills to the west of camp. Then, by throwing his force to work on the nucleus buildings of the town and by opening the road which Randall had graded and which avoided Mormon Valley entirely, Dundas would be left high and dry in the hills; the blow would be effective and lasting.

To their entire satisfaction, it seemed as though the gods were for once throwing favors into their hands. After leaving the almost indistinguishable confines of the depression which had been named Mormon Valley, they encountered desert as level as a billiard table, of good gravelly sand which offered no great difficulties to an automobile or light truck built for the work. Traveling by compass, they tracked out a straight road that came out on the railroad within half a mile of their destination.

The town of Ilipah was not imposing. It consisted of a dozen straggling houses and stores, grouped around a hotel of adobe whose rooms were all on the ground floor, being no more than a chain of adobe cells linked together.

At the station, Levy found that he could get a train about three that afternoon for the north and Carson City; whereupon the two friends hastened to the hotel and with sighs of relief from the desert sun seated themselves in the fly-bitten dining room.

The noonday repast was rough, wholesome food ; the same adjectives applied to the other men at the board — hardened desert workers, against whom a white-faced commercial traveler stood out in high relief. One of them chanced to be the owner of the garage, and with him Marsh fell into talk. Another was the real-estate agent, being also the mayor of Ilipah. With these twain, Marsh and Levy engaged in profitable discourse.

The mayor, by virtue of his office a booster of marvelous power, was swift to see that with Ilipah a partial base of supplies for the camp of Hammond, Ilipah was bound to benefit. And when the wide Mormon Valley was converted to farming land Ilipah would boom.

"I'm durned if we ain't goin' to lure you fellers away from Pahrock!" he exclaimed enthusiastically. "That there is the no accountest town I ever did see, that Pahrock. Now, if you was to put up a warehouse and we was to donate the land for it, I'll send through whatever orders to Las Vegas you want."

"In other words, act as our agent?" suggested Marsh.

"Yep! Glad to do it!"

"Good ! We'll pay you, of course ; and if you can have the warehouse put up for us, it will be a N big help. Now, I want to get hold of a man who can drive that flivver of ours as a stage between here and our new town of Hammond — there and back each day. By the way, Abe, we'll undertake to handle the mails free on that stage ; don't forget to mention the fact at Carson City."

They adjourned to the drug store, which was also the local post office and general store, and in no long time all the details were arranged to Marsh's satisfaction.

The three-o'clock train came and went, bearing Levy away on his mission. Marsh then retired to the back room of the drug store, with the mayor and keenly interested postmaster ; here he proceeded to make out an order for cement and other supplies to be brought up from Las Vegas at the earliest opportunity.

"We been thinkin' o' startin' a bank here at Ilipah," said the mayor, looking at the postmaster, who nodded sagely. "But blamed if I don't think she'd go better over to your place, Marsh ! Now if me and Ike, here, was to throw in with two-three more friends of our'n and start up a bank, do we git the concession over there?"

Marsh sat down and lighted his cigar thoughtfully. A bank! This town project was certainly on the boom !

"A bank takes money," he began cautiously. The mayor chuckled.

"Oh, this here country is a long ways from busted ! We got fifty thousand ready to shove into an Ilipah bank ; but over at your place; now, with good irrigated lands, a bank 'u'd git so much money shoved at her that she'd jest lay down an' holler for help!"

" I'll think over your proposition, my friends. Come over and take a look at us in a couple of weeks— "

He paused suddenly, the words dying in his throat. From the front of the store he had caught a voice which sent his face livid.

"What — who's that ? " he said hoarsely, leading from his chair.

"That," said the mayor, " is Bill Nickerson, which same we don't take much pride in as a prominent citizen, him being of recent origin here and unknown."

Marsh held up his hand, listening. Again that voice came, this time more clearly, as the speaker shot his words through the opening at the postal station.

" Good evenin', ma'am. Have you any mail heah, ma'am, addressed to Majah William Nickerson, late of Geo'gia ? Pleased to receive it, ma'am"

Marsh turned and crossed to the side door of the building, which opened into the back room wherein they were.

"I'm a deputy sheriff, gentlemen, and that man is wanted for attempted murder in my camp ! If you'll kindly allow me."

He saw the postmaster dive for a desk and yank open a drawer, but stayed not to see more. Throwing open the door, Marsh leaped outside and ran swiftly towards the front of the building. In this moment a wild exultation seized upon Marsh, as he mentally visioned the future, clear and unclouded ; the plans already under way would strike Dundas a deadly blow — Newgate apprehended, would mean a confession from the rogue, and that confession might involve Dundas — nay, to save his own hide Newgate would certainly give away the game of Dundas ! And what mail was Nickerson, as the man now called himself, receiving ? Who, except Dundas the master villain, knew how to reach Colonel Newgate ?

A glance over his shoulder showed him the mayor and postmaster just leaving the back room, revolvers in their hands. Not waiting for them, Marsh strode forward to the entrance of the store.

As he reached it, there emerged the tall, black- clad figure of Newgate. Marsh halted. Newgate descended the step from the doorway.

"Mr. Marsh, suh!" he exclaimed.

" Exactly. You're under arrest, Newgate," snapped Marsh.

He saw the man's face change, saw the upcrawling right hand suddenly dart to the left armpit— and threw himself forward bodily, with a raging passion flaming in his soul.

His fist took Newgate under the chin, and sent the man staggering. He leaped after, and drove home a storm of blows.

Newgate was entirely unable to disregard the fists that smashed him backward— unable to take punishment while he could draw a gun. Instead, his arms shot out and he strove in a most futile manner to ward off the impending storm; fired by grim anger, Marsh gave him left and right, planting his blows almost at will. Before Newgate had recovered from the attack, Marsh was in upon him with a deadly swift series of short-arm jabs learned from Dan Kelly— jabs that rocked Newgate's head as if it had been on a pivot.

A moment later Colonel Zadkiel Newgate, alias William Nickerson, quietly slid to the ground and lay jerking one leg spasmodically.

"Wow!" gasped the mayor, coming forward and stowing away his weapon. "Here's the real old-time bad man clean knocked off'n his feet in two minutes!"

Marsh smiled. " If you'll load this fellow into my car, I'll take him back with me — better take off his artillery first. Boys, this man is the dirtiest scoundrel who ever came into the desert, barring one other! Let me tell you what he did to―"

Marsh checked his words abruptly ; he had done enough talking, and in the desert places the man who knows most is usually the one who tells least. Power is bred of reserve.

" Well," he went on, " never mind all this skunk has done — he's wanted for shooting up my partner, and that's enough ! So if you'll load him into my car―"

He left them crowding about the figure of Newgate, stripping it of weapons, and walked over to his car. As he cranked up, the drab figure of a tattered desert rat approached, at his heels nosing his burros. From beneath a wide slouch hat gleamed a pair of twinkling eyes that surveyed Marsh and his car.

"That there automobile has got burros beat a mile, ain't it?" observed the prospector. "Does she go fast?"

" Middling," and Marsh laughed. "Can I give you a lift, old-timer?"

" Lord, no!" was the fervent response. " I'm goin' your way, but not in no automobyle. Piute Joe ain't interested in them things only at a distance. Tell ye what, though ! I'll bet ye a hundred dollars I can set them jacks o' mine through places ye can't f oiler in that automobyle!"

"Nothing doing on that bet, Joe! I can't cross sinks or loose sand washes."

Having replenished his gas and water supply on arriving in town, Marsh had nothing to delay him. Willing hands bundled Colonel Newgate into the rear seat, and after rejecting the mayor's offer of a revolver, Marsh waved adieu to Ilipah and sped out upon the desert,

A short distance from town he halted the car long enough to lean over and thoroughly search the pockets of Newgate, who was beginning to show signs of life. His search was rewarded by an envelope with inclosed letter, addressed to Nickerson in the handwriting of Ralph Dundas.

" Good!" Marsh shoved it into his pocket without further examination. "Now to get off to a secluded spot— then we'll have a war talk!"

Twenty minutes later the horizon had engulfed Ilipah. Marsh halted the car, turned and saw Newgate's battered countenance evincing bewildered curiosity as to his whereabouts, and grinned cheerfully at the man's scowling gaze.

From the envelope he extracted the letter. It was brief, and to the wild joy of Marsh, was all that he could possibly desire :

My Dear N.

All is smoothing over nicely. Am running our own camp in person, and hope to get rid of Marsh before long, in which case can arrange for your return.

Stick close to Ilipah during the next few days, as I may have need of you in haste. No further news, but watch the mails closely.

Yours,

E. Dundas.

Marsh refolded the note and replaced it in its envelope.

"Well, my dear Nickerson-Newgate, you have now a chance to moralize upon the evils of bad company ! And now you face the penitentiary. I don't know how they do it out here in Nevada, but I hope they put you in the mines at hard labor! That is, if you choose to go there. We may strike upon a happy medium which will serve you and me both."

The eyes of Newgate quickened at this. "How'd you-all know I was at Ilipah? " he demanded.

"Oh, the little birds told us ! I'm sorry Levy missed meeting you ; he took the northbound shortly before I discovered you. Well, do you prefer jail or freedom?"

Newgate raised one hand and tenderly examined his marred features.

" Don't tantalize me," he groaned. " My preference, suh, is obvious. You have conquered me in fair combat."

"Good! Now, isn't it perfectly true that you drugged my ginger ale at your camp that night? And you did it on orders from Dundas."

"Between you an' me, suh, it is true!"

"And that Dundas is the man behind you and behind this booze town you opened up?"

In response to this, Newgate merely nodded sullenly.

"Then," pursued Marsh evenly, " you have two
courses open to you. One is to go to jail and be prosecuted for shooting Levy. The other course is to come on to camp with me, right now, and there
make public the corroboration of my statements which you have just made. Expose Dundas. exonerate me— and you'll go free."

"Yes! And Dundas will skin me alive!"

" He will— not! We've already got his town project uncovered and ruined. We'll be able to jail him for conspiracy against me," Marsh was hazy on the law, but spoke boldly, "and against the company also. We'll break Dundas, that's all!"

Colonel Newgate thoughtfully fell to making a cigarette. While awaiting a response, Marsh dropped into the car pocket the letter from Dundas. As safe a place as any, he reflected.

"I reckon we're headin' for Mormon Valley now?" queried the prisoner meditatively.

"We are, and we have a good night ride ahead of us."

Newgate tossed the stub of his cigarette out to the sand.

"You're a great bad man, you are!" Marsh surveyed his captive scathingly. " Climb in here beside me, and think it over! I want you where I can keep my eye on you."

He alighted, cranked up the car and regained his seat. Newgate groaningly stirred himself and came into the front seat also. Marsh started the car, following the tracks which he had made that morning , the trail was easy to make out, but after dark he would not dare hit up any speed because of the rough ground, so he made the most of the waning daylight.

Marsh set himself to show Newgate that Dundas was not to be feared. Necessity constrained him to detail his entire plan, for much as he detested Newgate, the man would prove an ultimate weapon with which to smash Dundas.

"Well, suh," remarked Newgate at length, "I'll go you!"

Ahead of him Marsh now saw nothing but undiluted triumph. Even should Newgate go back on his word and prove recalcitrant, there was the note from Dundas— abundant evidence in itself of the man's purposes and schemes!

"The evil days are over," reflected Marsh in high spirits, as he piloted the car upon its uneven course. "Now I'm about ready to fight."

The swift sunset of the desert was accomplished, and as the purple shadows closed in, Marsh realized that he must light his car lamps if he would keep the road until the moon rose. Not neglecting to keep a watchful eye upon his battered captive, Marsh alighted and touched a match to his lamps.

What he did not observe, however, was that the hand of Colonel Newgate reached out and effected a change in the throttle, then slipped down to the brake, and set it hard.

Marsh had never learned to crank a flivver with his left hand, so, leaning down, he naturally gripped the crank and hauled her over. His first and only intimation that the throttle was not as he left it, came in an explosive roar from the engine; one-tenth of a second later, he was limply hanging across the left fender, his right arm numbed.

And as he hung there, dazed, something struck him savagely across the head. And for John Marsh, the lights went out.

5: Murder

JOHN MARSH had passed through a long and wearisome day. Consequently it was not strange that his unconsciousness passed into slumber, once the pain of his hurts had quieted clown.

Slow and uneasy wakening came to him, with the morning sun striking upon his face and stirring him into life despite his drowsy turnings. For a space he sat up with his head in his hands, trying to conquer the stabbing anguish; the clotted blood on his scalp told him that Newgate had struck hard and pitilessly. Then, as gradual cognizance returned to his mind, he found his right forearm black and yellow— badly bruised, but not broken.

There was no sign of Newgate, nor of the old Henry in question ; this in itself was not particularly amazing, because Marsh was already becoming resigned to the escape of his erstwhile captive.

But as Marsh gazed on the sand around him, he uttered a gasp of blank and bewildered unbelief, then clutched at his aching head.

" Am I drugged again ? " he muttered, staring.

On the sand a few feet away from him reposed an object with which he was perfectly familiar, yet its appearance here was so utterly incredible as to leave him staggered. It was the safe of the Mormon Valley Company— the safe from the office of Sanders, reposing here on one side with its front door wide open— and nothing inside of it!

Bewildered, he looked up and searched the horizon, wondering if some genie or afrit had fetched that safe through the air and had dropped it beside him ! He saw neither afrit nor genie ; but, not far away and approaching from the direction of Ilipah, a tattered figure followed by a string of burros was heading toward him. It was no other than Piute Joe, the desert rat.

And in the opposite direction, Marsh saw what fetched him staggering to his feet — an automobile approaching from Mormon Valley!

Staring at the car, Marsh presently was aware that it was a brand-new flivver. With a shock of recognition he made out the figure of Ralph Dundas at the wheel, beside him Doctor Weld. Had Dundas bought a new car, then?

The head of Marsh sank again, between pain and dejection. With Newgate had gone all his evidence against Dundas ; his conjectures had been confirmed, he had turned wild theory into definite certitude— and that was all. Until Newgate should be recovered, he had no grounds whatever on which to base an attack on Dundas. He looked up as the new Henry came to a halt before him, and eagerly advanced. Weld leaped to the sand and caught him as he reeled.

"Good heavens!" exclaimed the surgeon. "Man— what's happened ? "

"Got hit— on the head." Marsh essayed a shaky laugh. " How'd you know where 1 was ? "

Weld looked up. Marsh followed the look, to meet the cold eyes of Dundas, smiling at him in a cruel fashion.

"Put him in the car, Weld," said Dundas, unheeding the query.

Gratefully Marsh relaxed in the shade of the car top, while Weld examined his hurts.

"Where'd this flivver come from ? "he demanded. "Looks new."

"Belongs to Dundas. H'm! You're all right, old man."

To the indignant surprise of Marsh, Dundas leaned over and coolly frisked the pockets of Marsh before the latter could so much as object.

" What the devil " Marsh weakly shoved him off. Dundas laughed coldly.

"You don't know what's happened — oh, no!"

" Eh?" Marsh stared at the speaker in wild surmise. " Say, are you drunk or crazy? Weld, how did that safe get here in the middle of the desert?"

To his amazement, Weld's lips tightened, and the physician looked away.

" I'm sorry, Marsh," he returned slowly. " Before we explain, do you mind telling us how you came here?"

Marsh did.

There was momentary silence when he finished.

" Have you any proof of this, Marsh ? " said Weld gravely. " I have a reason for asking."

" Proof that I captured Newgate — yes!" Marsh pointed to the slowly approaching figure of Piute Joe. "Ask that old prospector, if you like. He was at Ilipah and saw it all."

Dundas laid a hand on the surgeon's arm.

"Weld, come and look at these tracks before they get mussed up, will you ? Back in a minute, Marsh. Take it easy."

He saw them halt beside the safe and examine the ground, then circle out and back to the waiting car. Meantime, Piute Joe was plodding forward steadily, being as yet two hundred yards distant, and evincing no token of curiosity in the group awaiting him.

"Here's the point, Marsh," said Weld, as he and Dundas came back to the car. "Some time last night, or early this morning, the store was broken into and robbed, the safe being carried off. Sanders must have heard the robbers, for he broke in on them and seems to have put up something of a fight before— they murdered him."

" Good God!" cried Marsh, catching the surgeon's arm. " Poor old Sanders murdered — no, you're joking!"

" It's true, Marsh," and in the eyes of Weld was something that smote Marsh cold within his soul. "Poor Sanders was brained. You remember the man Valdez whom you fired ? He's been hanging around Mormon Valley for the last few days ; and this morning we found that he had disappeared. Dundas pitched in with us in fine shape, and when we discovered automobile tracks outside the camp, we knew how the murderers had escaped. We simply followed the tracks  to this point."

"Then Newgate was in on it!" exclaimed Marsh. Vision-like, there flashed across his mind ail that these words portended. " After Newgate laid me out, lie went on to camp and- "

"Be careful what you say," broke in Dundas coldly. " It may be used against you."

Marsh stared into the glittering icy eyes of the man for an uncomprehending minute.

"Me?" he said slowly. "Used against me?"

A short laugh broke from him. " I imagine you would be tickled to death to fasten this crime on me, Dundas — but you can't do it. I've been lying here all night."

" Now listen to me, Marsh." Dundas leaned over the side of the car, his powerful features set in a cold, deadly poise. "Do you admit that you were at Ilipah yesterday ? "

" Of course, you ass!"

"Well, clutched in the dead hand of Sanders was found a list of supplies, in your own writing, bearing the date of yesterday, and headed ' Ilipah Orders.'  "

Marsh stared blankly. He had kept a duplicate  list of the orders given the Ilipah mayor— but his  pockets were now empty.

" But— see here ! You can't suspect that I had any hand in this crime ! Good heavens, men— you can't! Don't you see what really happened? Newgate went on to the camp and got Valdez ; they broke into the store—"

" And left this safe lying here beside you ? " broke in Dundas coldly. " It's no use at all, Marsh. The whole thing is plain! By these tracks,―" he swept a hand toward the tyre-bitten sands, "―your car went to Ilipah yesterday, came back, and then went a third time toward Ilipah.

"The evidence is damning, Marsh," went on Dundas icily. " You can't possibly lie out of it. You patched up tilings with New r gate and came on to camp with him ; you looted the store and carried off the safe. Sanders got in a couple of cracks on you before he was murdered. When you got back here, you opened the safe for the other two crooks— then Newgate ditched you and the useless safe, and fled with Valdez. "

" You're a damned liar!" flared out Marsh. "I got the goods on you yesterday— and now you've trained this up on me, damn you ! I caught Newgate at the Ilipah post office, with a letter from you in Ms pocket. Your whole game's exposed!"

"Where's Levy ? " cut in Dundas, unheeding the accusation. "Was he in on the deal?"

"Levy's on business which is no concern of yours. Weld, can't you see―"

The surgeon shook his head, pity in his eyes.

"I can't see anything but the plain facts, Marsh," he returned gravely. "I'm frightfully sorry, but—"

Marsh raised himself, fury surging through him.

" This is your doing, you dog!" he cried, making an ineffectual attempt to strike at the sneering face of Dundas. " Newgate came to you last night— told you the game was up— and between you this damnable tiling was framed on me! I forced the whole thing out of Newgate ; how you'd had him drug me, and then tried to ruin me by claiming I was drunk— how you are the real man behind this booze and deviltry!"

" I'm sorry," said Dundas, quietly, turning away. The drab figure of Piute Joe had approached, and the desert rat was standing watching and listening.

"Here, you ! Were you over at Ilipah yesterday?"

The tone, rather than the words themselves, brought a flash into the faded eye, and the prospector's wrinkled features hardened in a scowl.

"You yerself!" he retorted. " My name's Piute Casey. What the hell is it to you? "

Dundas laughed in understanding.

"Didn't mean to rile you, old-timer," he returned soothingly. " There's been a murder at Mormon Valley and we're after the men. They had a car like this, and seem to have headed for Ilipah, early this morning. Did you meet any one on the way as you came from there?"

Piute Joe reflected, his weatherwise gaze duelling on Marsh and Weld.

" Nope," he answered at length. " I ain't seen no automobyle on the road to-day, gents. But about three mile back toward Ilipah, they's tracks where one turned off'n the road."

"Oh! Which way?" demanded Weld eagerly.

"West. Toward the desert."

Dundas nodded, and motioned to the car.

" Here, you climb in, Piute Joe. We'll want you as a witness."

"Huh?" The prospector stared at him. " Who in hell ye talkin' to? What about them burros o' mine— goin' to order them to climb in, too?"

Dundas took a step toward him with angry eyes.

"Forget your burros ! They'll wander back to town all right. Get into this car, d'you hear? We want your testimony."

"Wait till ye get it, ye cat-headed mule driver!" The right hand of Piute Joe slipped inside the belt of his trousers and slid out with a revolver in its grip. " Consarn yer blasted face! Tell me to leave them oF burros o' mine out here, will ye? Why, ye rotten strip of a bum banana, who ye think's runnin' this here desert ? You ? I ain't gettin' tangled up in no lawsuits— no, by jings! Hop inter that automobyle and shove ! Hurry up, blame the lot of ye!"

Dundas took another step forward, his fists clenched— and the desert rat fired, the bullet making Dundas duck hastily.

"Shove, I'm tellin' ye!" growled the old prospector.

Silently shrugging his shoulders, but with venom in his face, Dundas turned and cranked the car, then climbed in beside Weld. The flivver sped away toward Mormon Valley, leaving Piute Joe master of the field.

"As soon as we get Marsh home," Weld was speaking in the ear of Dundas, but Marsh caught the bitter words, "we'd better bring a couple of men back here and follow those tracks where they turn off. We're sure to get the other scoundrels that way."

Marsh knew now what had happened, for in his own mind the fragments pieced together perfectly. Newgate had gone direct to Mormon Valley, had found Dundas and had told everything. Desperate, Dundas had made a quick, bold stroke to seize advantage of Marsh's condition. He had sent Newgate and Valdez to raid the store— and during the raid, poor Sanders had been aroused and murdered. Then Newgate, fleeing in the car, had returned to Marsh and had carefully left the office safe on the sand near by.

He saw guilt fastened upon him, guilt that could he denied, but not disproved. The circumstances would convict him, as circumstances have convicted many another good man! How could he combat this devilish thing ? His own charges against Dundas were futile without proof — and Dundas well know their futility ! But there was one thing which neither Newgate nor Dundas could know, unless some chance had revealed it to them — the hiding place of the letter taken from Newgate, the letter which would incriminate Dundas.

"That's why Dundas was so quick to search me— he was looking for it!" thought Marsh.

They were nearly within sight of the camp, when one of the rear tyres blew out— too heavily charged with air to withstand the desert heat. Weld jumped out with the jack, and vanished in the rear; instead of following at once. Dundas twisted about in his seat and transfixed Marsh with his coldly glittering eyes.

"Marsh," he said, his voice low but tensed, "I'll get you out of this scrape if you'll return me that letter you took from Newgate."

For a moment the astounding offer took Marsh off his feet.

"That letter's where you'll never find it!" he returned. The brows of Dundas lifted.

" So? Don't try to bluff, young man! Do you accept my offer?"

" You go to hell!" snapped Marsh. "That letter will break you yet!"

Dundas merely laughed, and swung out of the car to help with the tyre.

Marsh could but dimly remember the arrival at camp. Presently, however, he was in full command of himself again, due in part to a most unpleasant swallow of medicine which Weld administered to him. He did realize, however, that Elsa Hammond appeared to have taken over the authority of the place, and he resented it.

What he did not realize was that Dundas very cleverly contrived to further this appearance by coolly ignoring ail others and directing his report to Elsa Hammond alone ; and that, Kelly not venturing to assert himself, the girl's natural poise and inherent ability led her to assume a leadership that was thus thrust upon her.

Dan Kelly, Crowther, and Randall stood a little apart. Elsa Hammond and Virginia Stevenson stood by the doorway, listening to the damning evidence set forth by Dundas. The most unconcerned person of ail present appeared to be John Marsh himself. He drew his office chair to the doorway and sat down, took out his pipe and tobacco and proceeded to smoke.

" I believe that concludes the case, doctor?"

Dundas glanced at Weld, who nodded regretful assent.

"Of course, on our own account we can do nothing save hold Marsh ; Weld and I sent a man to Pahrock last night, Miss Hammond, to summon the Las Vegas sheriff — who has jurisdiction here."

"Thank you." Elsa Hammond turned to Marsh, her hazel eyes troubled. " Is this almost incomprehensible report correct ? "

"The report is entirely correct, Miss Hammond," he returned coolly, "as far as it goes."

The girl's lips tightened. Plainly, she had no love for the responsibility which had been put upon her shoulders, and she could not understand the laconic reply of Marsh.

"Where were you yesterday and last night, if I may ask? And where is Mr. Levy ? Why on earth don't you say something?"

"And intrude on the remarks of Mr. Dundas? Not at all!" returned Marsh lightly. "Since I am now given the floor, I went yesterday to Ilipah with Levy, who there took the train farther on— bound on business of the company, which he will disclose to you upon his return here. Shortly afterward, I encountered Colonel Newgate, who was in Ilipah under the name of Nickerson. And under that name, he was receiving mail from Mr. Dundas, here."

Marsh paused.

"That is a lie," said Dundas evenly. "Where is your proof?"

Marsh disregarded this query, and continued to address Elsa Hammond.

"From a letter written and signed by Mr. Dundas," he went on calmly, " which Newgate had just received, I found proof of what we had long suspected— that Dundas was the real owner and founder of Mormon Valley, and that he had used Newgate as a blind to hide his activities. Having taken Newgate into custody, I started home with him. I halted to light the car lights, he threw in the spark, and when I cranked up―" He displayed his bruised arm, and finished his short tale.

He saw Weld studying him in frowning perplexity; he saw Kelly and the two surveyors grinning; Miss Stevenson was frankly bewildered, while Elsa Hammond looked from him to Dundas with intent, concentrated gaze.

"Where are your proofs of these charges, Mr. Marsh?" she asked at length.

"As for my proceedings at Ilipah," returned Marsh, "I fancy that Piute Joe Casey or any one else who was there will verify them."

"Casey?" Miss Hammond frowned at the name, but Marsh saw Crowther and Randall exchange a swift look. Evidently, he thought, they knew the man. A moment later, when the meeting with the old prospector had been explained, Crowther quietly left the group, unnoticed.

"It is not your proceedings at Ilipah which are in question, Mr. Marsh," said the girl quietly, when Casey's mention had been cleared up. "It is what you did after leaving Ilipah — during last night! Your charges against Mr. Dundas―"

" Include the fact, to which Newgate confessed," put in Marsh, " that he had drugged rue the night I was in Mormon Valley— drugged me at the instigation of Dundas, here, and fetched me home as he did in order to ruin me."

"Be careful, young man!" Dundas stepped forth with a growl of anger. " What you are saying amounts to criminal libel!"

"Stop a moment, please!" interrupted Elsa Hammond, white-faced. "Mr. Marsh, where is that letter you say you got from Newgate ? Where are your proofs of your charges ? "

Marsh rose, smiling.

"This is not a court of law, Miss Hammond. I shall produce my proofs when I am ready— and not before. Dan!" Marsh beckoned Kelly forward. " Much as I would relish the prospect, I am at the present moment unable to enter into a physical encounter with Dundas. Kindly escort him back to his own camp— and keep him there."

Dundas stepped forward, his face black with anger— but Elsa Hammond was before him.

" Mr. Dundas is here at my request, as my guest, sir!" she exclaimed, facing Marsh hotly. Her hazel eyes blazed at him. "Kindly remember your present position."

"My present position is that of boss of this camp, Miss Hammond!" interrupted Marsh curtly, his voice clashing like steel. " Kindly remember that you are my guest, and not my employer ! Kelly, why are you waiting?"

Before Miss Hammond could say more, Dundas nodded to Kelly, and addressed the girl in accents of grave pity.

"Don't infuriate him, Miss Hammond, I beg of you! He's desperate, of course, and is merely trying to put a bold face on the matter and stave off the inevitable. I'll go, for the present, and relieve the situation. Weld, by all means take my ear to follow the tracks of Valdez and Newgate."

And with this he departed. The two girls turned abruptly and went to their own cottage.

Weld beckoned to some of the men who were watching the scene from below, and a moment later the grinding whir of the automobile's engine filled the basin.

Left alone with Marsh, Randall slowly came to the doorway.

"Want me to fix up that head a bit, Mr. Marsh?" he proffered awkwardly.

"No, thanks." Marsh looked at him, with a smile. "You and Crowther know Piute Joe Casey, do you ? His name seemed to wake you up."

"Yes, sir." The man's eyes warmed a trifle. "We've known him off and on a good many years. I guess Crowther went to meet him."

Marsh nodded comprehension and glanced away toward the opposite side of the basin.

"Poor Sanders!"

Randall nodded, distress in his eyes.

"I know, Mr. Marsh. If— if there's anything I could do to help— "

"Thanks. Nothing but keep the work moving along, Randall ! Levy ought to be back in two or three days and he'll be able to push her through if—if I'm gone."

Randall turned away, cursing under his breath.

For a space Marsh sat motionless, staring vacantly across at the desert hills, but seeing nothing of what was before him. He was suddenly lost in a mood of listless despondency. With the sheriff and coroner would come the end of the bootless struggle. After that, evidence was all that would count.

"Eh?" Marsh glanced up as some one addressed him. He wakened from his reverie to see Dan Kelly standing beside him, watching his face with anxious gaze. "Oh, it's you? Dundas went home, did he?"

"Yes, sir." Kelly paused, then broke forth impulsively. "Aw, hell, boss ! Will ye, now, let me an' some of the byes take a run through shanty-town? We'd be proud to lay out that divil Dundas aside o' poor Sanders."

"It's no use, Dan." Marsh smiled wearily. "They've got me this time for keeps."

"Eh ? Divil take me ! Didn't I just hear you tellin' the dhirty divil to his face you'd been an' got the goods on him?"

"But I haven't, Dan. I had the evidence last night— and now it's gone. They've framed me, and done the job well!"

"Well," gasped Kelly disgustedly, "I'll be domned! If I'd knowed this, I'd have put me fist into that divil afore I left him— I would that!"

Marsh smiled.

"You put your fist into keeping these Mexicans on the job, Dan."

He forced himself resolutely to take up the threads of "the job." An hour later he was hard at work below the great dam, on which Kelly was superintending the men. He set Randall to work getting out the crews and supplies for turning out the cement blocks and the irrigation pipe, which would occasion a subcamp being established around the shoulder of the hill to the right of the dam.

After Randall had departed, and while Marsh was poring over the plans of the spillways and chutes, he heard a light step behind him — and turned to see Miss Hammond approaching.

For a moment her gaze, grave and deeply questioning, met his; then she spoke softly.

"Mr. Marsh, I've been trying to look at things through your eyes."

Too amazed to speak, Marsh could only stare at her dumbly, color flooding his cheeks.

"I was angry," she went on, meeting his eyes bravely, "and I said more than I ought! I am sorry, Mr. Marsh. Do you realize that you said more this morning about— about yourself than you have said heretofore? You have thought us quick to judge, and you have resented it and held silence."

"I tried once to explain about that night over at Mormon Valley," said Marsh slowly.

"And I've wanted to discuss it very often since then," she frankly confessed, her level eyes strangely luminous and compelling. "And this morning, I had not usurped your authority from any ill will toward you, nor had we prejudged you. But it was a shock to find— what was told us! Your exposure of Ralph Dundas left us all thunderstruck."

"Yes. Dundas is your friend," said Marsh gravely.

"No more than you were my friend. And I want to believe in you, if you will let me."

Marsh whitened as he met her quiet, compellent eyes; whitened at thought of what was coming, of what must come !He realized that Elsa Hammond was meeting him frankly, fairly, openly, and was setting forth her very soul without reserve, striving to wipe away the misunderstandings of the past.

It was a moment for soul nakedness. With a boldness which Marsh had not thought dwelt within him, he had stripped away conventions and spoke what was in his mind.

"I have not realized all this, Miss Hammond. Dundas has been a friend, perhaps more than a friend, of yours, for a long time. I think he cares a great deal for you. He has carried your picture for years. I have thought— it has seemed to me that he was in a position where his word would carry far more weight with you than would mine."

" I have never given you reason to think such things," she responded gravely, crimson flooding into her cheeks. "But Ralph has given plain evidence that backs up his word."

"I  have never had more than my word to offer," said Marsh dully.

"But you have it now!" cried the girl, her eyes brimming with eagerness. "Don't you see? That letter, of which you spoke, proves everything!"

"I haven't it." Marsh's gray eyes blazed from his white face. "Dundas does not know where it is, and he is afraid! If it is found, as I think it will be— or if Newgate is found―"

"What ? You have nothing?"

"Nothing more than my word. It will have to balance all the evidence on earth, Miss Hammond!"

"I— want to believe in you— yet— yet how can I? " Like a wail the words broke from her throat. " Can't you give me— more than—"

He looked into her eyes, shaken by the emotions that gripped him, sundered by the strong impulse to take her at her word— to claim the faith and the love which he read in her eyes ! Yet he dared not speak, and before the twisted anguish of his face she turned suddenly and left him standing there; and he did not know that tears were on her cheeks.

After a time Marsh found Dan Kelly shaking him angrily.

"Divil an' all take you! Standin' here in the sun with no hat an' the hurt head of ye—and the bleakness of hell gazin' out of your two eyes! Man, dear, will ye sit down ? "

Marsh sank back on his camp stool apathetically.

"Dom the women!" said Kelly, entirely to himself.

6: Desert Flight

DURING THE AFTERNOON Marsh plunged into the work in hand with a savage energy that banished personal thoughts. His hopes hung now upon the return of Weld with the camp car, and that which lay within the pocket of the car— provided it had not been located.

Supper over, he sat down to the typewriter and pounded out his report to the company concerning the murder and robbery, then wrote out in detail his plans regarding the new town of Hammond, together with the arrangements made at Ilipah; this latter was for Levy's benefit, Marsh reflecting that before his assistant returned he would probably be in the Las Vegas jail awaiting trial.

Barely had he finished this task and lighted his pipe, when the office door opened to admit Doctor Weld. Marsh leaped to his feet.

"So you're back ! Did you find the car? Did you fetch it home?"

"The car?" Weld gazed at him in weary curiosity.

"No. I've been hunting men, not cars. We traced that car east, then north— straight across the railroad and highway the other side of Ilipah. and onto the Painted Skull Range. There we lost her. It's gravel and stone canyon country— the worst I ever saw!"

"And you lost her!" repeated Marsh dully. "Did you stop at Ilipah?"

"Yes, with no result except to confirm your story about capturing Newgate. However, I wired up and down the railroad to every town on the line, and if Newgate or his companion turn up they'll be certain to be caught. Well, I'm off to get a bit of supper. See you later."

So Newgate had struck across the railroad to the east, into the fantastic maze of desert where his tracks had been lost! Why? The answer was obvious and kindled an eager flame within Marsh.

The criminals must know that they could not hope to come out of the desert with that car— therefore they had struck on into the Painted Skull Range, intending to abandon the car and presumably scatter.

Marsh had heard tales of that range of weird desert formations; waterless and unknown, even prospectors shunned it as a place accursed, for nothing of value had ever been found there and its formations were crazy. Newgate, however, had evidently been making for some definite point.

"By George, I'd like to go after him!" thought Marsh. "But―"

It was a large " but." There was no bail for a murder charge, and the sheriff could not now be many more hours in coming.

Dundas, perhaps, had a better idea than any one else of where the flivver might be. And if Dundas ever got wind that his letter still reposed on that car— no one else would reach it first !

"I don't dare tip any one else off about it," reflected Marsh, biting hard at his pipestem. " He'd get wise to it— the infernal scoundrel! I'll have to wait till Levy shows up. And what good would that letter do, after all, so far as this murder charge is concerned ? None whatever. It'd go a whole lot toward proving my story, however. H'm ! Where did Newgate get his supplies ? "

He swung around to his desk and got out his large county maps. Newgate and his accomplice— for Marsh did not doubt that Valdez had abetted him— had struck off into the Painted Skull Range where the map showed not so much as the mark of a water hole.

Before committing the crime, they must have filled the car with gasoline, and taken aboard water and provisions— from Mormon Valley. They would need extra gasoline, too, if they were to get far across the desert sands. Were that car found, even after being abandoned, the containers of the gas and water would be damning witnesses against Dundas— for they must have come from Mormon V alley, and could be identified.

"Dundas is a slick devil— he schemed out this whole affair almost on the spur of the moment; but right there's a detail he must have overlooked!" thought Marsh, his gray eyes alight. " That old flivver must be found ! If I could only have a week's respite! Well, no use sighing."

At this point in his reflections, the office door was thrown open, and Dan Kelly hastily entered. Behind him came Crowther and Randall.

"Hello, boys!" Marsh smiled. "Where in thunder have you three fellows been?"

"We've been talking to old man Casey." Randall glanced at Crowther, then back to Marsh. "He's outside camp, over on the sand hills. "

"Wouldn't he come in?" queried Marsh.

"No — he's afraid he'll be dragged into the law's clutches as a witness," and Randall smiled faintly. "While we've been confabbing with him, Kelly's been over at Mormon Valley."

Marsh shifted his gaze to the big foreman. He was suddenly aware that all three men were in the grip of a repressed excitement, and the smile died from his eyes.

"So? What's up, boys? You haven't found Newgate, by any chance?"

"No such luck, boss," returned Kelly. "I ran over to be keepin' me eye on Dundas, an' just now the sheriff come in. Dundas, the slick divil, did meet him and is talkin' with him this minute!"

The sheriff— at last! Despite his knowledge of innocence, Marsh whitened, and felt as though a cold hand had touched his soul.

"Well, I'd better pack up some clean clothes, then," said Marsh soberly, rising from his chair. " I'll need 'em."

"Hold on, boss," exclaimed Kelly, shaking his red thatch. "You ain't goin' with the sheriff. But do you go on, Randall ! I'm done with talkin'."

Randall cleared his throat nervously.

"Why, Mr. Marsh," he spoke out, "I been talkin' with Piute Joe and so has Crowther. Seems like the old chap has taken quite a shine to you and got all riled up by Dundas this mornin'."

"He certainly did." Marsh smiled faintly, remembering that scene on the desert. "I'm sorry you couldn't induce him to accept our hospitality here."

"We was inducing him to do something else," returned Randall. "Now, Mr. Marsh, you can trust old man Casey to the last chip ! We told him the whole story, and he was all for going over to Mormon Valley, pickin' a quarrel with Dundas, and shooting. But we stopped that, 'cause we had a better scheme on foot."

Marsh lifted his brows, surprised.

"Oh, you had ! What is this scheme?"

"Why, sir, we have it doped out that if a bit o' time is gained, so much the better for all concerned; that is, it ain't goin' to do you no particular good
to get rushed off to jail an' let Dundas shove the deal through. No, sir! So what's to hinder you goin' off there to join old Piute Joe right this minute? He'll take you where no sheriff on earth can find you."

Marsh lifted a protesting hand.

"Thanks, boys," he said quietly. "But I don't want to run away from this thing. Don't you see, you chaps, that if I were to skip out, the action would amount to a confession of guilt?"

Kelly stepped forward, nodding.

"We figgered you'd be sayin' that, boss, but me
an' the byes ain't done. Now tell me here ! We want to get our hands on Colonel Newgate, blast him! Him or Valdez. We heard that Doc Weld come home after havin' lost the car over beyant the railroad in the Painted Skull Hills: well, Newgate ain't got very far, boss ! I'm thinkin' meself that he's hidin' out in some o' the mining towns like he was over to Ilipah — up in Bullfrog, mebbe, or Chloride, or somewheres off the railroad.

"Well, it's goin' to take time, but all three of us knows this here country, boss— we know all the byes betwixt Las Vegas an' Rhyolite, in ail the camps. 'Twill be a hard thing, but we can write an' set them byes to work diggin' up Newgate or Valdez ! D'ye Bee, now ? Two weeks, mebbe, would help."

Marsh mechanically knocked out his dead pipe and filled it again. Sudden eagerness blazed in his eyes.

" See here, men!" he broke out, new vigor in his tone. "Would this old chap Casey take me wherever I wanted to go? I'll be glad to pay for his services."

"He don't want pay," put in Crowther almost harshly. "Yes, I reckon he'll take you in any direction you want, sir."

" Here's what I'm driving at," went on Marsh with increasing animation. "If I can locate that camp automobile which Newgate stole, I can very probably get my hands on the evidence which will convict Dundas— convict him of being an accessory after the fact to the shooting of Mr. Levy, and of conspiring with Newgate ! Not only this, but if I can find that car I'll run even chances of proving that Dundas stood behind Newgate in the murder and robbery ! And that car is somewhere in the Painted Skull Range— d'you see?"

From all three men broke a low exclamation.

"Divil an' all, but it's fine head on ye, boss!" cried Kelly admiringly. "So while we're on the trail o' Newgate, it's you an' Casey who'll be chasin' that ould car, eh? And one way or the other we'll not lose!"

" Yes." Marsh nodded, and flung to the winds his scruples. After all, the game was well worth the candle! Piute Joe Casey probably knew the Painted Range as well as any one; and two weeks would be enough, more than enough time !

" But I'll not run away from the sheriff," added Marsh. The three stared at him in bewilderment, while he laughed curtly. "No— I'll just take two weeks off ! I'll go off with Piute Joe and lose myself ; at the end of two weeks I'll come and give myself up, and I'll either win or lose in that time— it's a gamble, my friends! Shall we try it?"

"Aye!" cried Randall. "And we'll do our part, Mr. Marsh!"

Marsh turned quickly to his desk and sat down. He seized pen and paper and addressed a brief note to Elsa Hammond :

" I am going away in search of the evidence for which you asked me this afternoon. In two weeks from to-day, if I have not found this evidence, I shall give myself up to stand trial; it is a foregone conclusion that, in view of the evidence against me, the coroner's jury will find me guilty.

"Two weeks will make or break me. Please hand this note to the sheriff— he is square and will under- stand. I am not running away from consequences in any sense."

Signing the note, he took from his vest the deputy sheriff's star and pinned it through the folded paper, which he then extended to Kelly.

"Here, Dan, give that to Miss Hammond to-night, will you — before the sheriff leaves? Now, how do you expect that I'll be able to escape from him? Hasn't he an auto here?"

Kelly nodded, as he stowed the paper in his pocket.

"Sure he has, but before sunup ould Casey will have ye where autos can't go, I'm thinkin'! And I'll guarantee to give the sheriff a bit o' blarney that'll hould him until ye get well away, boss."

"All right." Swiftly Marsh kicked off his slippers and began to get into his high-laced, heavy desert boots. Midway of the task, he glanced up. "Say, Dan ! Do you suppose you could keep Dundas from using his car for a few days? While my absence for two weeks will be generally taken as an indication of guilt— something which I can't help— still, Dundas will know that I'm not guilty; he'll know, also, that I'm doing my level best to find Newgate, or evidence that will clear me, and he may take some measures that would give Newgate warning. If you could do something to his flivver which would keep him at home and off the desert entirely?"

Kelly grinned.

"I'll do it this blessed night while he's over here lookin' in on the inquest, boss!"

"Good! Here's a note for Mr. Levy when he comes back and a letter to the company which I wish you'd post yourself. Until Mr. Levy returns, remember that you're in charge of this camp and responsible for it. Keep Dundas off the company's land at all cost ; he'll have to be at the inquest, but keep him off afterward.

"And you, men, I want to thank you for your trust in me! Please God, I'll justify it before' I'm done!"

At the doorway the foreman left them, striding off toward the store on the opposite side of the basin. Marsh glanced at the Hammond cottage— then turned to his two surveyors.

"All right, boys. Let's go find old man Casey!"

And in this fashion John Marsh abandoned his job— temporarily.

John Marsh was down to the bed rock of existence, and admitted it with a wry grin that twisted his cracked lips painfully.

"Two weeks from to-night," he had said to Piute Joe Casey, on setting forth from the scene of his labors into the desert, "I want to turn up at some town on the railroad. Will you guarantee it?"

"Yep," assented the desert rat laconically. "Let's go."

After that first forced night's march that only ended with daybreak, Marsh lost all count of time. The crossing of the railroad and rutted sand trail that marked the highway had become a dim memory, all but obliterated by the toil which had intervened since. Piute Joe said that they had only been "out" four days — but it had seemed more like four years.

Before that first night was done, Marsh had told Casey the whole story— of necessity. The old prospector frankly had no desire to go into the Painted Skull region; but he had acquiesced upon learning the reasons.

Once over the railroad they had picked up the tracks of Newgate's stolen car and had followed them until they were lost in the fine-blown sand of the gravel desert. Nor was it strange that Doctor Weld had failed to follow farther, for they had come into such a country as Marsh had imagined could he only at the world's end.

The three burros plodded after the gaunt, drab figure of Piute Joe, their loads of water cans ever and anon sending forth muffled "plunk-plunks "under the pressure, their sharp little hoofs never faltering. Alter them toiled Marsh, squinting against the desert glare.

Marsh had long ere this fondly imagined himself hardened to the desert. Here, however, was no shelter by day or night; here each ounce of water was husbanded like precious gold; here the constant toiling through surface sand brought into play muscles which he had never previously known to exist.

And the sun! Striding over that sand hour after hour was a different matter from superintending workmen back at camp. Nor was the sand the worst, for after getting into the Painted Skull Range the huge masses of rock refracted the scorching rays tenfold, until Marsh thought the very soul would be burned out of him.

"No wonder that even prospectors don't like this country!" exclaimed Marsh on the fourth night out, as they settled down for a smoke after supper. "It's got anything beaten I ever saw or heard of!"

Piute Joe chuckled to himself.

Marsh grinned back as well as his sun-cracked features would permit.

"Well, I'm not here on pleasure, so I'll stick a while longer. There's no water whatever ahead of us?"

"Well, I won't say they's none, They's marble cañons if ye can find 'em, which same allus has a few drops o' water. 'Bout this here automobyle, though, it's plumb hard to say. I kind o' figger that Newgate dropped that other guy at the railroad an' come on here alone. He wouldn't have enough supplies for both, for long, 'tain't likely."

Although taken by surprise, Marsh found himself agreeing with this theory, and before they stretched out for the night they had argued it into plausibility.

"Where Newgate's headin' for there ain't no tellin'," observed Casey judicially. " This here deestrict is laid out like a crazy quilt in hell; they ain't no reg'lar run o' valleys nor nothin'. However, I seen some doves, so in the mornin' we'll get a p'inter on the nighest water, which'll likely be a marble cañon."

"Then he might be heading clear through to the Pabranagat?" queried Marsh in dismay. "Could he make it without more gasoline? He couldn't carry much of a supply."

"He could carry enough, an' he could make it — only he won't," was the dry response. " He prob'ly knows this here layout pretty well, but this here ol' desert has tricks up her sleeve. Wait till mornin', and I'll show you something."

WHEN Marsh wakened at daybreak, his companion had vanished. He set about making ready their breakfast, and before it was quite prepared, Casey showed up.

"Jest what I thought," exclaimed the old prospector complacently. " I been watchin' the doves, an' they're headin' due east. Mebbe we can light on a marble cañon an' fill a water can."

This prospect looked interesting. Newgate was a desert-wise man, and if there were any water in these desolate hills he would know of it. After the murder of Sanders, which, of course, had not been premeditated, it was not difficult to see that Newgate and his comrades had taken to desperate flight.

"The murder happened to fit in with their plans, that was all," thought Marsh, as he took up the trail again behind the burros. " Dundas planned a robbery— and circumstances combined to further his infernal schemes! Well, it looks to me as if I'm down to the very bottom of things at last! If I could have had a glimpse at this country about the time I bought that six-dollar kakemono by Chang Mow, I'd have been apt to stay in New York!"

The valleys were now sandy arroyos, now lifts in solid rock, now twisting canons that wound between walls of dazzling whiteness. They were heart-breaking, these valleys, even the canny old Casey admitting his desert prescience quite useless here; for as often as not they would end in a blank draw, forcing the travelers to retrace weary steps and seek some other opening, which in its turn might end in a box canon, or peter out along some blazing red hillside. Here were no more of the gaunt, ghostly joshua trees, but patches of mesquite and other desert brush occurred at intervals.

Presently, as they wound through a wide sandy stretch, Piute Joe came to a halt. The cessation wakened Marsh from the half stupor in which he had been moving, and he passed the mules hastily, to find Casey lighting a pipe.

With his pipe he pointed to the sand ahead. There Marsh discerned two faint depressions running in parallel lines; his eyes remained blank, however.

"What's the idea ? "

"Well," drawled the other, enjoying his bewilderment, " three-four days back I reckon them tracks was some plain to read, only the sand has sifted into 'em "

"Tracks!" cried Marsh, starting. "You mean―"

"Yep, I guess we picked up that there galoot, Newgate."

Laughing excitedly, Marsh strode on in advance, staring at the tracks, certain at last that they had come upon the trail!

" Hold on, Marsh!" The voice of Casey restrained his eagerness. " Remember I'm an old man, and have a heart! What d'ye reckon them birds is after?"

Halting, Marsh stared up at the sky, and remembered that he had subconsciously noted the birds ever since they had started that morning, but had not focussed his thoughts or attention upon them.

A dozen vultures they were, hanging against the sky in wide circles. Two or three would sink down together from sight, only to rise again more hurriedly, as though frightened.

"Are they following— us?" queried Marsh, uneasiness in his upturned eyes. "They seem to be just about overhead, Joe."

"We ain't that dead yet, I takes it. Nope, they're after somethin' they ain't right certain is their meat yet. A sick antelope, mebbe, or a coyote. But about that there Newgate―"

He swept out his hand, indicating the scattered patches of bush.

"In a basin hotter'n hell like this one is," he said, sucking at his pipe, " which same ain't none too plentiful in this desert, that there bresh sure can raise cain with an automobyle ! 'Tain't everybody that knows it, neither."

Marsh glanced at him in surprise.

"That brush? Why, nonsense, man, I've driven over miles of it!"

"You ain't rid over this here kind o' country, have ye?"

"No. But back around the camp I have—"

" Back there around the camp is a reg'lar polar circle compared to this layout, son ! They's places like this off and on all acrost the desert, but this here one is enough to make the most ungodliest sinner born sit up an' take notice that they's more'n one hell!"

"It's hot, all right" assented Marsh. "But what about the brush?"

"I'm a-gettin' there. Every oncet in a while an automobyle she burns up, out on the desert, and no one knows what's done it, sabé? Well, we done got it figgered out, now, and most people that drives them things reg'lar is wise to it. But I figger Newgate ain't! And it's that brush what does it."

"How?" Marsh frowned.

"Friction. The belly of an automobyle is right greasy, an' runs next the ground, sabé? Well, you take a basin or sink like this here particular bit o' damnation, and let an automobyle go over that there bresh at a right smart clip— and you can stack my pile that something due to happen most unpleasant!"

Marsh whistled in surprise.

"By George, I believe you're dead right about that, Joe ! The friction would be mighty apt to generate a spark— and a spark would sure do the business ! And do you really imagine that Newgate may get caught that way ? "

"Wouldn't be a bit surprised, Marsh."

They advanced anew. By this time the morning was wearing well onward, and the sun was vertical— blazing down with an intensity that was almost overpowering, its terrific rays refracted tenfold by the surrounding Mils.

"Hey, Marsh! Looks like our water ahead. Marble canon, anyhow!"

"Thank Heaven!" breathed Marsh. "We'll stop an hour, Joe! Maybe we can find some shade."

Twenty minutes later they were between the gaunt, blazing white walls of a marble canon that twisted and wound a sinuous course before them. That the doves had led them aright was obvious, for water was denoted by the increased growth of brush on the canon floor. It would not be water as he had always known it, Marsh realized; it would be but a few trickling drops oozing from some vein of the stone walls, to be lost again instantly in the sand; yet it would be water, far sweeter than the fluid in the heat-blistered tins that rattled on the flanks of the burros !

Then, abruptly, with a harsh word that halted the straining animals, Piute Joe turned in his tracks and waved a hand to Marsh.

"Come here! I reckon we struck it at last, pardner."

Thirty feet distant was a black patch of burned brush, and in the centre of this lay a twisted heap of metal which had once been an automobile! Nothing was left of the car but scrap iron ; but it was plain that the flivver had struck a jagged rock concealed amid the brush, and had pitched over on its side— perhaps after the fire had started, perhaps starting the fire.

"Over yonder, against that left wall," said the old prospector, "lays Newgate. It's him the vultures was after! Guess I'll view the remains."

With the words, Casey started forward at an awkward run. Marsh, however, after one glance at the motionless figure made a black splotch in the sunlight, slumped down and sat dejectedly in the sand. Utter despair had come to him at last, suddenly and absolutely.

Newgate was dead. The letter from Dundas, which might have afforded him a fighting chance, was gone with the car; even from where he stood, Marsh could see that not a scrap of inflammable substance had survived that conflagration.

Even with this, had Newgate still lived, the man's testimony might have been procured. Now all final and ultimate hope was destroyed— at one blow Marsh had found the whole evidence wiped out, obliterated by a higher Hand, as though to purposely cast him into the very deeps of destruction!

"The galoot must ha' got pitched out o' the automobyle when she turned over." Marsh caught the voice of Casey, and looked up to see the old prospector approaching him again. " His right leg was busted."

"Did you search him?" A flash of hope revived in the breast of Marsh. "He may have found that letter, or he may have other papers hi his pockets! Now that he's dead, it is my one chance "

The flicker of hope was blasted by Casey's shake of the head.

"Ain't a thing on him — seems like he got considerable scorched up 'fore he could crawl away from the blaze. And say— what d'ye think? added the prospector indignantly. "The galoot had laid his face right square in the trickle of water we was after! Don't that beat all?"

Marsh made a hopeless gesture, and struggled to his feet.

"Let's go on back to the railroad," he said lifelessly.

"Not me. I'm goin' to stay here a while and enjoy the scenery.''  Casey grinned suddenly. " So are you, pardner! We get work ahead of us, believe me!"

7: The Return

ABE LEVY obtained what he went after in Carson City, though not without some delay. Returning by train to Ilipah, he heard a garbled account of what had happened, and hired a machine to take him out to camp at once.

He arrived there in a state of bewildered grief and anger, which settled into a poignant dismay when he had collated the various stories and had arrived at the truth of things. Unswerving as was his loyalty to his chief, boldly though he refused to admit the possibility of Marsh's guilt, he inwardly realized that the case against Marsh was deadly.

To make it worse, Marsh had been gone for a week, and there was a reward of five hundred dollars offered for information which would lead to his apprehension. The sheriff, it appeared, had been unconvinced that Marsh would give himself up within two weeks.

Levy arrived home in the morning, and it took him all the rest of that day to get the camp running smoothly again. Two bookkeepers and a store-keeper had arrived from Pahrock, and they had to be initiated into their work ; Dan Kelly was having trouble with the dam spillways ; Randall was having more trouble with the artificial stone molds around the shoulder of the hill where the new town of Hammond was to be built; the stage driver was in from Ilipah with a flivver to establish the stage line— and a thousand other details which had dropped slack-ended in the absence of both Marsh and Levy.

With the evening, a surprise awaited him. He was asked to the Hammond cottage to supper, and having scarcely seen the two girls since his arrival, accepted the invitation with alacrity.

He observed that Elsa Hammond was looking anything but her usual poised, authoritative self ; and, as he sat chatting with her while Virginia Stevenson was finishing the chafing-dish preparations, she turned to him with a sudden direct gravity that startled him. Even before she spoke, he knew that he must "face the music," as he mentally termed it. Nor was he far astray.

"Mr. Levy," said the girl quietly, " I want to ask that you allow Mr. Dundas to come over here to-morrow— he is to take me riding."

Levy whitened a little, but chose his words carefully, revealing none of his anger.

"I am sorry you ask this, Miss Hammond, for Marsh left me very definite instructions on that point— and I must obey them. By the way, when do you expect your father ? "

She looked down at her hands, biting her hp.

"I don't know. I had a letter yesterday — things have gone wrong again on the Colorado work. I don't think he has heard of the trouble here."

"You haven't written him?" ejaculated Levy in surprise.

"No. There was nothing I cared to write." She looked up at him again, her hazel eyes grave, unfathomable. " Mr. Dundas has brought over a very fine horse for me— part Arab. Surely you will not force me to walk over to the edge of the camp alone and back again."

"By no means!" exclaimed Levy. "We'll ride over on the horses that are here, Miss Hammond— and I'll return for you whenever you say. To-morrow afternoon?"

" At two." She laughed quickly. " And thank you for the offer! Come, I think Virginia is all ready for us."

With the next morning Levy abruptly left Kelly a handful of men to work on the dam and flung the majority of his force around the shoulder of the hill to work upon the foundations for the buildings which were to comprise the nucleus of Hammond. The new road to this place, avoiding Mormon Valley by a mile, was to-day being used by the trucks for the first time. The drivers reported that the only bad place in this road was a hill just the other side of the California line, and Levy determined to inspect it that afternoon.

At noon arrived the stage on its first trip from Ilipah, but Levy was too busy to bother with it, and did not return from the new town site until two o'clock. Then, passing the office on his way to the Hammond cottage, he noticed a pile of mail on his desk and hastily shoved it into his pocket.

Riding west through the hills with Miss Hammond, he was thinking less about her than about the plight of Marsh. Nothing had been heard from Newgate, and from what he could learn about the Painted Skull region, Levy had no hope whatever that Marsh would come on any traces of the old camp flivver. In a few more days the two weeks would be gone, and then―

It was not pleasant to think of the courtroom and Levy forced his thoughts away. They found Dundas waiting on the old road, just over the company's line. He was mounted, and held the bridle of a second horse — a magnificent beast, showing his Arab blood in every line, nervous and high strung.

"What time shall I return for you?" he asked the girl, without heeding the cold nod that Dundas flung at him.

"About four, if you'll be go kind," she responded lifelessly.

Dundas aided her to dismount and to gain the saddle of the Arab. Then, as he handed the bridle of her former mount to Levy, he paused with his cold blue eyes on those of the engineer.

"I hear you've laid out a new road," he observed.

"Yes." Lew looked down at him without comment. Dundas flushed.

"Trying to kill the town of Mormon Valley, are you?" he answered sneeringly.

"We are," returned Lew. "And we will."

"One of these days," and taking a step closer, Dundas gazed up at him with cruelly glittering eyes, speaking in a voice that the girl could not hear, "one of these days, Levy, I'm coming over to your place and ride you into hell! I've got Marsh, and I'll get you!"

Then he turned away before the passion-swept Levy could respond, and swung up into his saddle. They rode westward into the hills, and Levy watched them away without moving.

Only when he was turning the horses toward camp did he remember his mail. Halting, he drew forth the envelopes and skimmed rapidly through them, and stopped at one that was addressed to him in a scrawling, unfamiliar hand, but which had by the postmark been sent that same morning from Ilipah.

Thinking this must be from the mayor, in regard to the supplies Marsh had ordered, he swiftly tore it open. Then he stared down at the note, his face whitening.

Dear sir,

I am riteing you at the reqwest of J. Marsh, him having took to bed from a touch of sun and no water to speak of resently. The sheriff has got him all O. K. or will have to -night when he gets here. Will fetch him over to your plase in the morning. Am riteing this in a hurry to catch the stage and let you know we are well. Hopeing you are the same,

Yours truly,

J. Casey.

P. S. Marsh says don't get no brass band out to meet him becawse he don't want no simpathy. J.C.

Slowly Levy put away the letter with his other and unregarded mail and urged the horses toward camp,

"So it's over at last— the sheriff's got him! And he's ill. Dieu de Dieu! Poor old Marsh, you must have had one hell of a time out there!" The passionate dark eyes of Levy suddenly flamed. "And, diantre! If they jail you, my friend, I myself shall seek out Dundas and send him to the hospital! I swear it!"

After which Gallic outbreak, Levy rode back to work ridden by a demon of grief and anger.

He rode out again, this time with Randall accompanying him, well before his appointed hour; for he had forgotten to inspect that hill, and it must be graded or the road changed without delay.

That grading was impossible, Levy saw at a glance upon reaching the place. From the valley below, the road went straight up a stiff grade— the only one on Randall's survey. As the two men stood on the hill, discussing the best detour, they caught the hoarse shrilling of a heavily loaded truck, and looked down the valley to see the last truck of the day on its way toward them from Pahrock. In front of the truck, however, and parting to either side of the road to allow it free passage, were Dundas and Miss Hammond.

As Dundas swung his horse from the road, he cursed under his breath— for the truck had come along at an inopportune moment. The scowl vanished from his eyes as he rejoined the girl, however, and he leaned forward to catch her bridle; the Arab, naturally jumpy, had been frightened by the grinding whir of the truck.

"Thanks — I can handle him," returned Elsa Hammond. Side by side they walked their horses in the trail of the laden truck, and the eyes of the girl came up to meet the gaze of Dundas. " The answer, Ralph," she resumed quietly, " is— no."

The lean face of Dundas tightened, pale beneath its tan. "No?" he repeated, " But, Elsa, in the old days―"

"In the old days," she said, "I had a girlish admiration for you, Ralph. It was not love. It has not been and is not love."

"That is final?" asked the man hoarsely.

"Yes."

They went on for a space in silence. The truck, up above them, had slowed in its advance, and despite the shriller grind of its gears, was forced to a halt. Dundas drew rein, as they saw the driver set his brakes and go to the radiator with a bag of water.

"Listen to me," he said curtly. " I've loved you for years, Elsa — and by Heaven, I'm not going to give you up ! Is there any one else?"

"You have no right to ask that," she returned, her voice as cold as his gaze.

Dundas stared at her for a long moment, unmoving. Then a short laugh broke from him.

" Well! I have a proposition to make you, Elsa, Promise to marry me, and John Marsh shall go free; refuse, and he hangs for the murder of Sanders! Come, now. Which shall it be?"

The girl's face whitened, her eyes widened a little as they met his.

"Oh— you— you beast!" she said very slowly.

"Then— what he said of you was true!"

"I admit nothing, my dear Elsa. But come! How much do you wish to save him? Enough to  marry me?"

A moment she gazed at him, silent, motionless, save for her bosom that rose and fell to her excited breathing.

"Can you save him?" she asked at length.

"Yes." Exultation leaped into the face of Dundas,

"That is what I wanted to know," and the girl leaned forward, gazing at him in a hard contempt.

"That is why I came with you to-day, Ralph— and I've found that you lied! You lied! And John told the truth of you! Oh, what a beast you are! Marry you? Get out of my sight!"

Her quirt lashed the flanks of her Arab, and he quivered and leaped away.

At that instant, from the track on the hill fifty feet above, came a sudden snarling crunch of metal— overstrained, borne back by its weight of cement, the ratchet of its brake had ground off. With a scream of clashing gears, the insensate thing leaped backward down the slope.

That scream sent the Arab pitching in wild fear, and, echoing the scream with a faint cry that was lost in the roar of the plunging truck, Elsa Hammond reeled from the saddle, full in the path of the thing, and lay motionless!

The driver ran after his truck in futile pursuit, shouting. Levy and Randall leaped to their saddles, but, from their position on the hill, were helpless. Not so Dundas, however.

Flinging himself from his horse's back, Dundas hesitated for the fraction of an instant, as though weighing his chances— then darted forward. With the roaring truck a scant twenty feet above, he reached the motionless form of the girl, and, scooping her from the sand in his arms lifted her body above his head.

To the horror-stricken Levy, spurring madly down the hill, it seemed that the mad truck smashed into them both. But from the roiling cloud of dust ho saw the body of Elsa Hammond thrown out to the sand, away from the danger track; and as the truck plunged on downward, the dim shape of Dundas lay broken in the dust.

"Thank the good God she has fainted!" sobbed Levy, as he swung to earth.

An hour later, Dundas, perfectly conscious, lay on a bed in the Hammond cottage and read the verdict in the eyes of Doctor Weld. Behind Weld stood Levy, Randall, and Kelly. The two girls were in the adjoining room.

The shadow of his thin smile curved the lips of Dundas. "How long?" he whispered faintly.

Weld, for all his iron nerve, could not repress the quiver of his lip.

LATER.

The office of the sheriff held a gloomy, almost tragic, atmosphere. The sheriff, standing behind John Marsh, was looking down at his boots and Levy, with haggard face, looked away out of the window.

"Look here, sheriff," Levy jerked at length, "can't we bail Marsh out? Dundas died without confessing. He's gone to a coward's grave, I believe he would have spoken if he'd lived to the day, but he died with sealed lips. Look here, sheriff," he almost shouted, "we've got to bail Marsh out."

The sheriff fingered his frayed moustache.

"Nope, I reckon not," he answered slowly. "Miss Hammond, she done spoke about it— but it can't be done, none whatever. Say, though, this here Dundas went out like a man— eh? "

Levy turned on him angrily, stung by this callous unconcern.

"See here, sheriff! Marsh has given himself up voluntarily— and I'm hanged if you're going to cart him away to jail! Confound you―"

"Be quiet, Abe!" commanded Marsh sharply. Ho turned to the officer. " Sheriff, may I have a moment in private with Miss Hammond?"

The sheriff surveyed him with a twinkle.

"Well, I reckon you can't escape here, Marsh— s'pose you take five minutes, 'fore we put them handcuffs back on vou."

Marsh turned away with Elsa Hammond, repressing a smile. But Levy, at these words, flamed up in hot anger.

"Handcuffs— for him? " he stormed, shaking his fist under the sheriff's nose. "You try it! Sang de Dieu! Try it if you dare!"

He paused in astonishment, for the sheriff was laughing openly, and Piute Joe, in the car, was stifling a guffaw. Marsh and Elsa Hammond had walked to a little distance, and as Levy stared around, he saw the girl suddenly break into mingled tears and laughter, and the arm of Marsh clasp about her shoulders.

"You can't bail Marsh out— because he ain't a prisoner!" chuckled the sheriff.

"Not— a prisoner!"  Levy stared anew. "But— you said in that note, Casey—"

Piute Joe leaned down from the car, grinning widely.

"What I said was to the p'int, Levy, but we didn't want to give Dundas no warnin', sabé? We found that galoot Newgate an' thought he was dead, but he ain't dead at all. So we got him out o' the desert, and had one hell of a time— he's layin' over at Ilipah right now! Yep. He's done confessed the whole blamed shootin' match, lock, stock an' barrel ! We come over intendin' to take Dundas by s'prise— Valdez was took in Las Vegas last night."

Levy understood at last, and with a storm of happy French oaths turned to rush toward Marsh— but the sheriff caught his arm and whirled him around.

"Son," said the officer severely, "nobody ain't in no hurry but you! Are you?"

Levy's jaw dropped. Raising one hand dazedly to his brow, he turned toward the horses and Virginia Stevenson.

The sheriff was quite correct— no one was in a hurry. Marsh and Elsa Hammond, in fact, had quite forgotten that any one else existed.

"Dear girl," Marsh was saying softly, "I've loved you from that first day I met you, in New York! I've never dared to tell you, even when I saw in your eyes "

"Why didn't you tell me that day in camp, before you left?" She looked up into his eyes, smiling. " Didn't you know I wanted you to tell me then? Didn't you know that if you'd told me I'd have believed you against all the world, in spite of everything— because I love you, too? Why didn't you tell me then that you loved me?"

"Tell you then— when I was facing jail?" Marsh laughed a little. "Oh, dear heart, was that what you wanted me to do? It was very hard to keep silent! But listen, dearest! Do you know what I want your father to give us? That is, if he'll be in any mood to do it."

Her eyes gleamed like stars, with a great happiness.

"Dear, dad will give us whatever I tell him to!" Her laugh rippled forth happily. "He'll be so astonished that there―"

"Then ask him to give us that kakemono of the Chang Mow syce and the traveling horse!" Marsh chuckled. " We'll frame it, and when I've told you the real story about it "

Back in the car, Piute Joe Casey stretched out comfortably and asked the sheriff for a match.

"Don't it beat all what folks find to talk about?" he mused reflectively. "Sheriff, reckon ye'd better light up— ain't goin' to be no vittles for us till night at this rate. Look over yonder at Levy and the gal on the horse ! Durned if they ain't goin' to git all flustered and escited likewise, right here in public ! Don't it beat all?"

"Lay over there and give me some room!" ordered the sheriff, climbing in. " You dad-burned old hardshell, ain't you willin' to wait here all day if necessary?"

Piute Joe yawned.

"Oh, they ain't no hurry, I reckon!"

They grinned at each other understandingly.

__________________________

5: The House of Skulls

1: I Buy a House

I MET BALLIOL as result of answering an advertisement in a Los Angeles paper. It looked like just what I wanted. Here is the ad to speak for itself:

FOR SALE

Twenty-acre ranch, fine house, complete equipment. Ten acres walnuts, eight pears. Electricity. Water abundant. Income, five thousand dollars, but will sell cheap for cash. Near lake north of San Francisco.

John Balliol met me by appointment for luncheon at a downtown hotel. Instantly I saw that something was very wrong with him.

He was a fine-looking young fellow, but was terribly nervous; he must have smoked ten cigarettes with the meal. That, if you happen to know, is purely a city habit. Then, he had a way of glancing swiftly over his shoulder as though afraid something were about to come at him; and his eyes wandered, flitted with lurking suspicion.

He was afraid of something.

But he was a gentleman, a man of education. One or two things he said gave me the idea that he was a Harvard man, but he kept very close-mouthed about himself. He had a queerly aggressive manner, the manner of one who fights yet knows that he is licked. Also, he wanted to sell and get his money at once—before the following night.

“But you’re not a rancher, Mr. Desmond,” he said, suspicion in his eyes. “Why are you interested in my property?”

I laughed. “Largely because it’s a sacrifice for cash,” I replied. “I’m no rancher, but a sedate artist of a sort. Being a bachelor, I practice interior decoration; but I paint pictures as a preferential occupation. In the past year I’ve made so much money through supplying really worthless but gorgeously blended interiors to war profiteers, that my general physical condition has gone flooey, if you get my meaning! The New York medicos sent me to California. The Los Angeles medicos have ordered me to get on a ranch up north, where the climate is more bracing and not so deadly monotonous.”

“I get you,” he nodded briefly. “Know anything about ranching?”

“I can stretch an easel between rows of pear-trees, can’t I?”

At that he laughed, and for a moment lost his nerve-tensed expression.

“I need money,” he said after a bit. “I need it badly—before tomorrow night. I got the ranch several years ago; I’ve been improving it steadily, and the house and property are now in first-class shape. And, I’ve spent a lot of money on it.”

“Reason for selling?” I inquired.

“Strictly private.” He looked slightly flurried, but his eyes remained steady. “Merely because I need the money, and need it more badly than I can tell you. It’s a grand place up there, Mr. Desmond! Deer are a nuisance; you can shoot wild hogs anytime. If you like fishing, Clear Lake has the best in the State. In two or three years, after they get the boulevard through from Frisco, the whole valley will be opened up and land will be out of sight. At present it’s twenty miles from the railroad, and I can’t honestly brag of the roads—”

He got out a map of Lake County and showed me the lay of the land. When I saw that the lake was thirty miles long, that his place was only a few miles from Lakeport, the county-seat, that it was in the heart of the hills, and within easy distance of the big trees and of San Francisco itself, I warmed up to the subject.

“Well,” I said, “what’s the price? Lowest cash.”

“Ten thousand cash—if I can get it before tomorrow night.”

That looked queer to me. Ten thousand for a place bringing in five thousand a year!

“You want the money by tomorrow?” I said thoughtfully. “I have an old friend in one of the banks here; he’ll handle everything for us. He can make thorough inquiries as to the title, and so forth, by wire. If it’s as you say, and if the title’s clear, we can know by tomorrow noon—and I’ll take it. Otherwise, not.”

He drew a long breath. “I’m satisfied, Mr. Desmond. By the way, if you put through the deal, would you consider buying a car? I drove down here in mine—a Paragon four-passenger roadster. I’ll not need it, and I’m already offering it for sale. If you haven’t a car, you’ll find it the best bargain on the market. Cost me five thousand about four months ago, and I’ll take a thousand cash—before tomorrow night.”

“All right,” I assented cautiously. “If you’re willing to have the Paragon agency here give her the once-over.”

He was willing to have any kind of investigation made, either of the ranch or of the car. Inside of an hour my bank had the ranch matter in hand, and promised me a complete report the following morning. John Balliol and I went to the Paragon agency on Olive Street, where his car was laid up, and I found no report was needed.

The car was strictly a beauty, in first-class shape. She was not exactly an economical car, but she would give good service for years—a nifty, high-class job all around, as the Paragon agent described her. I liked her so well that I bought her on the spot, ranch or no ranch; and I’ve never had cause to regret the bargain.

That night I spent a good deal of time wondering about my friend John Balliol. He had all the earmarks of a gentleman; but for all I knew he might be a rank fraud. Not a word had he said about himself, other than I have set down here.

If he had not been in a hurry, and if his ranch was as described, he could have obtained twenty thousand for it—easily. And his car was saleable for double the price I had paid. He was obviously in the position of one who is madly sacrificing all that he has in order to raise quick money—“before tomorrow night,” he had said. Of course, it was none of my affair aside from the business end of it.

At ten the next morning I went to the bank, where Balliol was already waiting. The cashier beckoned me into his private office and spread several telegrams before me.

“Everything looks correct, Mr. Desmond,” he stated. “In fact, everything is correct. The title is flawless, and the land is worth much more than is asked.”

“And this Mr. Balliol himself?” I said. “Will you satisfy yourself that he’s what and whom he says he is?”

The cashier grasped this somewhat involved query and nodded. Then he summoned Balliol to join us. At first Balliol was inclined to be insulted; then we made him realize that to hand out ten thousand in cash to a man without identification was somewhat risky. He immediately calmed down, and not only produced all kinds of papers, but had himself identified by one of the largest banks in the city, just around the corner from my own bank. In short, John Balliol was all to the good.

“You attend to the transfer,” I said, when Balliol produced the deeds to the property and handed them to the cashier. The latter nodded and left us alone.

“Now, Mr. Balliol,” I said, when I had written the check as was waiting for it to dry, “this deal is going through. I wish, as between gentlemen, that you’d tell me anything you know against the property—why you’re giving it away.”

He turned a little white under his healthy tan, and fished for a cigarette.

“Can’t do it, Mr. Desmond,” he responded. “It’s—well, it’s private, absolutely. Nothing whatever against the property, upon my word! I got into a bit of trouble, however, and had to have the money. That’s all.”

Of course I asked no further questions, and the deal was concluded on that basis. I had made out the check to him personally, and he did not cash it, but took it away with him. He did not even ask the bank about my standing, which made me feel rather ashamed of my insistence regarding him. But, as we separated with mutual expressions of good will, I saw him walk away—and glance again over his shoulder with fear in his eyes.

He had two checks, amounting to eleven thousand of my money; and I had his ranch and his car. And that little Paragon boat, believe me, was a wonder! It was a distinctive car, with a specially built body, and the color was bright canary-yellow—light enough not to show dust easily. The top had plate-glass and solid curtains, and was a deep maroon in hue. Taken all in all, the car could be recognized several miles away as the only one of its kind on earth, particularly as the wire wheels were a bright pea-green. The top was low and deep, of the back-curved variety which effectually hides the driver and passengers.

Speaking for the New York decorator, I could not say that Yorke Desmond was exactly wild about the color-scheme of that car. I forgot this in the beauty of her performance, however. Later on, perhaps, I would have the paint changed.

According to John Balliol, I would have nothing on earth to do except to sit around while my walnuts and pears grew, and rake in the shekels when they were ripe. Everything was bought on the hoof, as it were, so I did not even have to pick the fruit. This suited me, naturally. Of course, explained Balliol, the ground had to be cultivated once or twice a year, and the pear-trees had to be sprayed in the summer, but all equipment was on the place. Such mild diversions would but relieve me from the monotony of having nothing to do.

As they say just off Broadway, it listened good.

It was noon when the sale was consummated, as I have described. Within an hour I had two extra cord tires reposing on the hind end of my new car, and a complete outfit of maps from the automobile club, and an outfit of suitcases on the running board. By two o’clock I had packed up my belongings, shipped my artistic impedimenta by express to myself at Lakeport, and at two-five I was heading toward Hollywood and the coast highway north.

My mental attitude was precisely that of a child with a new toy. I wanted to drive that Paragon bus for all she was worth, and only the fear of speed cops held me down. I was wild to get up to my new ranch and see how the walnuts and pears grew. So, having nothing particular to keep me in Los Angeles, I got on my way without delay. Either I had bought a wondrously good thing, or I had somehow got wondrously stung—and the chances were that I had not been stung!

By six o’clock that evening I was safely in Santa Barbara for the night. Ahead of me were the alternated patches of boulevard and most abominable detouring which constitute the State highway to San Francisco, and I was supremely happy in the way the Paragon rustled along.

That canary car, with the green wheels and maroon top, certainly attracted attention; this was the only fly in my ointment. I am essentially a modest and retiring man, and I abominate being taken for some ornament of the film industry. Anyone who had ever seen that car would remember it to his dying day, and I never passed a car on the road that my rear-sight mirror did not show me the occupants craning forward for another eyeful of my beauty. All this bothered me, but caused me no particular worry.

I could not forget, however, the peculiarity of John Balliol’s manner. I felt sorry for the chap; felt rather as though I had taken advantage of a man when he was down. Elated as I was over my bargain, I thought to myself that if the ranch panned out, I’d send him an additional five thousand later.

But I could not forget him as I had last seen him—glancing over his shoulder as though half expecting something to pounce on him.

2: I Meet a Lady

IT HAPPENS to be the case in California that the Los Angeles newspapers circulate north, and the San Francisco papers circulate south, until they overlap and die. They circulate swiftly, too. I was up and out of Santa Barbara before seven o’clock, and had the last Los Angeles edition in my pocket when I went to breakfast. They point of this digression will arrive in its proper place.

Beyond glancing over the headlines of my paper, I did not look through it, but jammed it into my overcoat pocket for later consumption. If only I had read that paper, things might have happened otherwise—or they might not. All’s for the best!

I got off in a drenching fog and drizzle of rain, which, I was assured, was the usual Southern California “high fog.” There were no speed cops out at this time of day, so in half an hour I was finishing the twenty-odd miles of boulevard north of the city, by which time the fog was breaking and the sun streaming forth gloriously.

The worst road I ever took, or ever hoped to take, befell me then and there. It was a detour, and there were miles of it, alongside the newly constructed but unfinished boulevard. Then I swung a bit of presumably finished road, with unfinished culverts at the bottom of each hill; the first one nearly took my head off when we struck. Then more miles, and long miles, of plain road—about as bad as the detour; then boulevard again, thank Heaven, that lasted! This took me until eleven in the morning.

Consulting my road maps, I found that I was close to a town—the name I have forgotten—and should reach San Luis Obispo for luncheon, with fair road most of the way. Being in a hurry, I stopped in the town long enough to buy gasoline, and I happened to stop at the first gasoline sign I saw, which was near the railroad station. Recalling the circumstance later, I remember that my car was headed north, quite obviously.

While the tank was being filled, a northbound train passed through without a stop, and the garage man said that it was the “flier” from Los Angeles. It had left there sometime the previous night, and passed here “regular as clockwork.” Naturally, at the moment I thought nothing whatever of the incident.

“Good highway all the way to San Luis,” observed the man, while he made change for me. “No speed-cop out today, neither. The boy got run into day ’fore yesterday, so burn her up if ye want! But keep your eye skinned north o’ San Luis, partner. Gosh! Say, ain’t this car a real oriole, though!”

Thanking him, I climbed in and proceeded to “burn her up.” The bad roads of the morning delayed me, and I was anxious to make time. I made such good time that I passed the limited train just before reaching San Luis, and, finding that it was still on the good side of noon, I determined to push on to Paso Robles for luncheon.

About twelve thirty I was in Paso Robles, still untouched of any speed-cop. Leaving my car before the garage in the main street, I began to skirt the block from storefront to storefront in search of luncheon. Now, I do not wish to pain the good citizens of Paso Robles; but I was too ignorant to go back a block to the big hotel; I merely asked for a restaurant and was directed accordingly. So I had no kick coming.

At last, on the other side of the block, I found a place, settled down to a table, and to my surprise found the food really endurable. As I ate I continued my perusal of the morning paper. It was the only Los Angeles paper in those parts, I imagine—for I saw no other there or north of there.

The paper was in two sections. And on the front page of the second section was a photograph of John Balliol.

As I glimpsed that picture I felt a premonition, a forewarning. Beneath it was his name and nothing more. But to the left was a three-column story, entitled: Scion of Prominent Eastern Family a Suicide.” Above this heading, after the custom of that particular paper, was another heading in very small type, being the quotation: “One More Unfortunate.”

It was just as well that I had about finished my meal, for now I was past eating. The thing stupefied me, left me blankly dazed; and to think that I had carried this paper with me all the way from Santa Barbara!

I plunged into the story, eager and horrified. There seemed to be no mystery at all in the affair, so far as the newspaper was concerned, except that there was no mention of Balliol having any money. He had merely plugged up his room and turned on the gas; this he had done shortly before midnight. An hour later the thing had been discovered and the story had broken in time for the newspaper to cover it fully in the last edition.

Friends of Balliol had volunteered that he had left a sister, whose whereabouts were totally unknown, and an uncle in Boston. Balliol’s father had been a prominent Boston lawyer, who had died some years previously, leaving his family absolutely nothing. Balliol himself had made a little money after leaving college, and some years before had gone on a ranch in the northern part of the State. There he had struggled along, fighting a losing game against the lean wolf, poverty, and so forth. In desperation to sell his ranch, he had committed suicide. They story was played up absolutely as that of a man weary of striving against the world, and had evidently been obtained from friends of Balliol.

For that very reason it left me dazed and bewildered! Four months previously, John Balliol had bought a five-thousand dollar car—a fact of which the newspaper was ignorant. That did not look like the grim wolf stuff. He had expressly told me that the car “cost him” that amount—not that it had been presented to him.

Of course he had wanted money very badly on those two days when I had seen him. But he had got the money; so why the deuce had he killed himself? The paper stated that his hotel bill in Los Angeles, where he had been stopping five days, had been unpaid, and that his personal effects amounted to nil. What the deuce had he done with my eleven thousand dollars, then? The thing began to look queer.

Investigating more thoroughly, I discovered that Balliol had been known at the bank which had identified him for me; but that he had no account there. One of the bank officers had known him in college. That was all. Nothing was known about his having sold anything to Yorke Desmond; my checks had not been found upon him, and neither had my money. By the time this information came out, the paper would hardly consider it worth reviving the affair. Balliol had killed himself, the present article made a plausible story, and nothing else mattered. He had certainly “gone west” of his own volition and act, and motives were unimportant.

Yet I knew that he had not killed himself because of poverty! The man had been afraid of something—that was it! As I sat there and stared at the paper, I felt absolutely convinced that, if the truth were known, John Balliol had killed himself to escape from something that had made him a nervous, fear-filled wreck! What had happened last night to make him plunge over the brink?

Realizing all of a sudden that I was outstaying the noon hour and my welcome, I paid the waitress and asked to use a telephone. By dint of paying the fee in advance, I got Los Angeles by long distance, and presently was speaking with the cashier of my bank.

“Yorke Desmond speaking,” I informed him. “I’m in Paso Robles and going north to the ranch I bought. Just saw the paper about Balliol. Did he cash my checks?”

“No, Mr. Desmond,” returned the cashier. “If they are presented, we’ll take every step to verify the endorsement of course. It seems to be quite a mystery.”

“All right, thanks. Address me at Lakeport in case of need.”

I rang off and left the place, stuffing the newspaper into my pocket. One thing was certain: the reporter had got the wrong steer from Balliol’s friends! Balliol had not killed himself because of poverty—not in the least. Why, he had told me that he had furnished his ranch house with all electric appliances and the best furniture he could get in San Francisco! No; his grim struggle had been one fine little myth. But it had satisfied the press, and had evidently been meant to satisfy the press—why? To keep the real truth concealed, of course. His friends were shielding him.

It was none of my business, but I could not help checking up on my private convictions. First, John Balliol had been afraid of something—either something in his past, such as disgrace which was hounding him, or something tangible and terrible in his present. Second, this fact was known to those in most intimate touch with him, and was being kept quiet.

Thinking thus, and being more or less absorbed in my trend of thought, I came back to the main street and my bright-hued car. A crowd of natives were standing about in admiring comment, which tended to make me want to get away from there. I jumped in and released the brake, pressed the starter, and was off. Regardless of warning signs, I went through town on second at a pretty good clip, then eased down into third and hit for San Francisco at an even thirty.

“Damn the whole affair!” I said aloud. “What if those checks were stolen from him last night—”

As the words left my lips, I heard a subdued gasp, then an exclamation. It came from the rear section of my car! I flung one startled glance over my shoulder, then I switched off the mag and put on the brakes. As we came to a halt, I half turned in my seat and stared blankly at the young lady and the suitcase.

She was staring at me just as blankly—more so, in fact; she seemed undeniably frightened. She had the suitcase on the short rear seat beside her, and it was a very good suitcase, of expensive make.

“Who—who—what are you doing in this car?” she stammered, anger creeping into her voice.

I was up against it, somehow; just how, I was not at all sure. She seemed perfectly sane, and I liked her voice immensely. I liked her face, too. It was a healthy, sensible sort of face, and it was exquisite into the bargain. She was dressed in a traveling suit which spelled something better than California tailoring.

“Who are you?” she demanded, half startled and half angry. “Answer me! What are you doing with this car?”

“Driving it, madam,” I answered. “I—er—I trust you don’t mind?”

She stared at me again. I removed the big, yellow goggles, pushed up my cap, and threw open my duster.

“Now,” I said comfortably, “we’re on an even basis. Since you wear gloves, I presume you are not a Californian—probably a mere Californiac. I hope you won’t think me offensive when I say that this is literally a charming surprise! Probably there’s been a mistake somewhere. I don’t see possibly how I can have got into the wrong car—”

“Stop that nonsense!” she cried out; and I observed that he had very blue eyes, and remarkably pretty eyes. “Drive this car back instantly!”

“Back—where?” I inquired. “Back—”

“Have you stolen this car?” she flung at me as if she really thought I had.

“No,” I said, and laughed. “No, madam. This car is protected from theft by reason of its color. No thief would attack it! The car belongs to me, it really does,” I went on, for her appearance of fright sobered me. “If you doubt it, look at the prescribed card here by the dash, which was legally affixed before I left Los Angeles. It bears my name and the car’s number—”

“Do you dare pretend that you are John Balliol?” she flashed out scornfully.

“Heaven forbid!” I said gravely. “Balliol’s dead. I bought the car, madam, day before yesterday. Only an hour ago I saw in the paper an account of his death—”

I curse the impulsive words. For she stared at me, her eyes slowly widening in horror, the color ebbing out of her face; then she collapsed in a dead faint.

3: I Receive A Warning

I HAD NEVER had a fainting lady on my hands before, except once when Mrs. Wanderhoof, of Peoria, saw the Fifth Avenue apartment I had decorated for her, and looked at the bill. In that instance, Mr. Wanderhoof had assumed charge. But in this instance—

We were out of sight of Paso Robles, and there was not a soul nor a house in view. There was no water to throw on the girl’s face—she was no more than a girl, I judged—and the radiator water was apt to be dirty. So, not knowing what else to do, I swung over into the rear seat beside her and set her slim, drooping body upright against the cushions. As I did so, I was relieved to see her blue eyes flutter open.

Then I remembered a flask of whisky in the door-pocket, and produced it. I got the screw-cup to her lips, but at the first taste she pushed it away.

“Thank you,” she said in a low voice. “I—I am very well now.”

She seemed unable to take her eyes from me; the color slowly crept back into her cheeks, but in her eyes I read a bewildered fear.

Then she said something strange:

“You said—they killed Jack after all!”

I was puzzled. Jack! Oh, she must mean John Balliol. The poor girl—I must have given her a stiff jolt!

“No,” I said gently. “No one killed Balliol, madam. I have the paper here with an account of it; it was suicide. May I ask if you are a friend of his?”

She seemed to shudder slightly, and drew a long breath.

“Yes. I am a—a friend,” she said in a low voice, and flushed. I had the uneasy conviction that she was lying to me. “Your words were—a shock. I saw him only last night, before my train left—or, rather, yesterday afternoon.

“When this car passed the train this morning I felt that it was he; I knew we were ahead at Paso Robles, so I left the train and waited—and I saw the car and got in. When you came along, I thought it was Jack—and meant to surprise him—and when you spoke I discovered—”

She broke off, the words failing her. That told me the whole story, of course. Even from the train she had not been able to mistake this accursed car!

“But it was only six last night when I saw him! And my train did not leave until nearly midnight—there’s been a wreck somewhere, and the trains were all held up. It never occurred to me that he was not in the car—”

She broke off again, starting at me.

“My name is Yorke Desmond,” I said, trying to make matters smooth. To my dismay, I saw her eyes widen again with that same startled expression. I could have sworn that she had heard my name before.

“I met Mr. Balliol two days since, on business. I bought a ranch from him, in fact, and bought this car to boot. I’m on my way up to the ranch now. If, as I presume, you were en route to San Francisco, I shall be very glad to place the car at your disposal.”

She looked away from me, looked at the horizon with a fixed, despairing gaze. My dismay became acute when I perceived that she was going to cry. And she did.

“Oh!” She flung up her hands to her face suddenly. “Oh—and to think that it took place last night—right afterward! And now it’s too late—”

A spasm of sobbing shook her body. Not knowing what else to do, and feeling that I had been a blundering ass, I went for a walk and let her cry it out. All my married friends tell me that crying it out is the only solution.

As I paced down the roadside, I found myself extremely puzzled, even suspicious. She had admitted to me that she had seen Balliol the previous evening. But first, when she had not been on guard at all, she had cried out: “They killed Jack after all!” Upon hearing that Balliol was dead, she had immediately taken for granted that “they” had killed him! Things looked rather badly.

The initials on her suitcase, which I had seen, were M. J. B. Was she a Balliol? No; she had said that she was a friend, and had distinctly said “friend,” not “relative.” And she had been lying about it, somehow; a minute later she had lied when she told of seeing Balliol the previous night. For her train had not been late! It had left Los Angeles a little before midnight, on regular schedule. “Regular as clockwork,” had said the garage man as the train had passed us. I remembered that incident now.

This girl must have known Balliol pretty well. She had seen him last night, and he had gone from her to his suicide. And, by Heaven, she knew it! She was lying!

Well, this conclusion gave me quite a jolt, to be frank. That girl did not look like an ordinary liar, and she did not lie with practiced ease. Why should she deliberately set out to deceive me? I could not see any light whatever. And the mysterious “they” whom she took to be Balliol’s murderers!

The whole affair was strictly none of my business. As I walked back to the car, I took out my pipe and filled it. This girl was in trouble, and my best course was to mind my own affair and ask no questions.

When I had regained the car, I found that the girl had composed herself and was now staring at the horizon again—a poor, crumpled bit of exquisite femininity. I removed my cap and addressed her.

“Madam, it seems that there has been a mistake somewhere. Please consider me at your service in any way possible! If you want to get to Frisco, we can reach there tonight, I believe.”

Her gaze came to me for a moment, and she drew a deep breath.

“Thank you, Mr. Desmond,” she said quietly. But she did not give me her name. “Jack told me of selling his ranch to you, but did not mention the car. That was how my mistake came to be made.”

Her lips quivered, and she looked down. Then she forced herself into calm again.

“If—if it would not be asking too much, will you take me on to San Francisco with you?” she pursued. “I’m very sorry indeed to have made this terrible blunder.”

“It will be entirely my pleasure, madam,” I returned rather pointedly. But she did not take the hint, and obviously intended to keep her identity to herself. So I got into the car, and, as I did so, removed the paper from my pocket.

“Here is the newspaper in question,” I added, handing it to her.

She took it in silence and leaned back again.

I started the car, and we went on.

For the remainder of the afternoon the two of us exchanged scarcely a word. Once or twice I attempted to divert her thoughts by comments upon the road or the country, but she discouraged my efforts quite visibly. I was too occupied with the road, which again alternated good with bad, to let my mind dwell upon the mystery of the girl.

We made time, however. I took the chance of speed-cops, and let out the Paragon on the good stretches. To my satisfaction, we got into Salinas a trifle before seven o’clock, with fine boulevard all the rest of the way to San Francisco.

“We have about a hundred and twenty miles ahead,” I remarked to my companion as we rolled into Salinas. “We had better get a bit to eat here, for we can’t make Frisco before ten or eleven o’clock. I imagine you had no luncheon,” I added hastily, seeing a refusal in her eye, “so I must really insist that you eat something.”

She had been crying again, but assented composedly to my request. We located a Greek restaurant, and went in together. After a cup of execrable coffee and some alleged food, we felt better.

“Now for the last lap!” I said cheerfully as we came out again to the car. “I haven’t much faith in the speed-cop myth, so we’ll let her out while the going’s good. All set?”

“Yes, thank you,” she responded, settling herself in the rear.

We started north, and the Paragon flitted along like a bat out of purgatory. She was a sweet boat for speed. When it got gloomy I threw on the headlights and the big spotlight which formed a part of her equipment, and we zoomed past the California landscape in the finest fashion imaginable. These vast stretches of country were entirely different from driving around New York, and I liked the change immensely; it was intoxicating!

Then we came to the extraterritorial suburbs of San Francisco, after getting through San Jose and Palo Alto and safely past the military camp. I am not at all certain where the spot was, but I know the Paragon was hitting a pretty good clip when into the cone of light beside and ahead of us flashed a man on a motorcycle. He passed us like a flicker, then he slowed down and extended his hand.

“Good night!” I remarked, with sinking heart. “There was a basis for the myth after all.”

When we were halted, the motorcycle planted itself at my elbow, and the officer took out his pencil and pad.

“Know how fast you were going?” he inquired.

“I’m afraid to guess,” I said meekly. “Your word’s good, officer.”

“I made it fifty-eight,” he observed. “Also, there’s a headlight-law in this State and you’ve got a blaze of lights there that would blind a shooting star. And your taillight is on the bum. That’s three counts. You seem to be sober.”

“Thank Heaven, I am!” I returned. “Anything else?”

He grinned, and took down more information about me than would have filled a passport. Then he gave me a slip and told me to report to a certain San Francisco judge at ten in the morning.

“Isn’t there any way out of the delay?” I queried. “I’m trying to get north in a hurry.”

“So I judged,” he retorted. “Too much of a hurry. Well, I must say you’ve took it like a gent—Tell you what! Run along with me, and we’ll drop in on a justice of the peace. This is a first offense, so you can give bail—and forget it. See? Of course, we’re not supposed to give this info, but—”

“But you’re a gentleman,” I added, “and I’ll make it right with you. If you can fix that taillight of mine, I’d appreciate it.”

Half an hour later we were once more on our way, with full instructions as to the proper rate of speed; and I was minus fifty-five iron men, and lucky to get off that cheaply. But the whole thing had delayed us so that it was hard on midnight when we saw the gay white way of Van Ness Avenue off to our left. I halted the car and turned around.

“Asleep, comrade? No? Well, if you’ll be good enough to give me orders, I’ll take you wherever you’re going.”

M. J. B. gave me the name of a hotel on Sutter Street where she was known favorably, it seemed, and instructed me to drive up Van Ness. She appeared quite at home in the city. I followed her instructions, and ten minutes later drew up before the doorway of a quiet family hotel. I helped her out of the car with her suitcase, but she refused to let me take it inside for her. She held out her hand.

“Thank you, Mr. Desmond, for your kindness,” she said earnestly. “And—I’ve been trying to think over what’s right to do. Would you take some very serious advice from me?”

“I’d take anything from you,” I said smiling. “Shoot!”

“I am not joking, Mr. Desmond,” she made grave response. “Please, please do not go to the ranch! I can’t give you any reasons; but I mean it deeply. For your own sake, do not go on to the ranch! Not until the end of the month at least. Good-by!”

She picked up her suitcase and was gone, leaving me staring after her.

4: I Hear a Bullet

OUT OF SHEER decency, I had to seek another hotel, naturally. I did not pay much attention to M. J. B.’s warning. At midnight, after a tremendously hard day’s ride in a car, after a stiff shock and a fainting-spell, the girl would be in pretty bad nervous condition. I took for granted that she was overwrought, and let it go at that.

As I wanted to reach Lakeport the next night, and had a plenitude of bad roads ahead, I was up and off at seven the following morning. Ferrying over to Sausalito delayed me, and before getting to San Rafael I was off on a detour which took me around nearly to Petaluma. The road was fair, but outside Petaluma I picked up a tenpenny-nail held upright by a scrap of wood, and it took one of my cord tires in a jiffy. Fixing that held me up a little while.

I got to Santa Rosa in time for an early luncheon, and discovered that I was going to make Lakeport in the afternoon, barring accidents. This was good news. I also discovered that the last place I could get any liquid refreshment was at the famous tavern kept by one McGray, on ahead. So, about one o’clock, I drew up before the wide-spreading place, in the shade of the immense oaks that shade the tavern-grounds, and went in to get a long, slim drink.

In view of the after-developments of that same day, it might be well to set down that I had one drink, and one only. Upon returning to my car, I came to an abrupt halt in some astonishment. A young man was standing by the off rear wheel, and he was not observing me at all. He was well dressed, but rather swarthy in complexion; this country was full of Italian, French, and Swiss grape specialists, as I had learned coming north, so there was no stating the antecedents of the young man. What interested me, and seemed to be absorbing him, was the fact that he had a knife in his hand and was industriously pecking away at one of my rear tires!

At times I yield to impulse, and this was one of the times. I reached that young man in two jumps and banged him solidly into the car, then jerked him upright and planted my fist rudely against his nose, allowing him to sprawl in the dust.

He picked himself up and went away in a hurry, swearing as he went.

“Of all the infernal deviltry!” I exclaimed as he vanished among the trees. “That fellow certainly had his nerve—”

I was relieved to find that he had effected no damage, beyond a hole in the casing that had not yet reached the breaker strip. Taking for granted that he had had a drop too much, I climbed into the car and departed.

Within no long time I had reached the village of Hopland, my destination on the highway. From here a toll-road ran over the hills to Lakeport, and I turned off without pause in the village, thankful that the end of my trip was in sight—as I thought.

That road was a brute—thick with dust, barely wide enough for two cars to pass, and with crumbly edges and a sheer drop at that, and a steep up-grade for five solid miles! In places it was a very beautiful road, winding up between forested growths of redwoods and giant conifers. As I nursed the Paragon up that road at fifteen miles an hour I had plenty of time for reflection.

Back to questions again. Out of the general muddle these had resolved themselves into certain distinct and coherent queries; and they fell under two heads:

John Balliol:

1. Whom had he been afraid of, and why? Unknown.

2. What had brought him to suicide? Not poverty, certainly.

3. What had he done with my checks? When they were cashed I would know.

4. Why had he needed the money by a certain night—the night he was to meet M. J. B., the night he killed himself? Unknown.

M. J. B., the Fair Unknown:

1. What was her connection with Balliol? Mystery.

2. Did his suicide hinge on his meeting with her? Problematical.

3. She had said: “They killed him!” Were “they” microbes or gunmen? Unknowable.

4. Why her warning against my going to the ranch?

My answer to that final query was: “Because she liked me!” It was a satisfactory answer, too. It made me glow happily. I had always been a sedate bachelor, but I must say that M. J. B. was the most attractive girl I had ever met, and to find her interested in me was, to say the least, very pleasing.

My only regret was that I had left her in San Francisco. I thought of going back to the city as soon as I had inspected my ranch—

Just then I observed that my radiator was boiling, what with the grade and the hot sun; and ahead of me was a spring beside the road, with a turnout. I halted the car at the turnout, baled cold water into the radiator with a rusty tin can, and sat down to smoke and let my engine cool off. It was a cool and pleasant spot, under lofty pines.

I was just knocking out my pipe when I heard voices and the creaking of a vehicle. Around the sharp bend ahead came a horse and buggy, the latter occupied by three men. All three carried rifles and knives, and beneath the buggy trotted a big hound. They nodded to me and drove to the spring, letting the horse have a mouthful. Obviously, they were natives.

“Good afternoon,” I returned their greetings. “Why the artillery? Sheriff’s posse?”

They grinned and laughed.

“Deer season opened yesterday,” one of them replied. “Thought you’d come up from the city for the same reason.”

“Not I,” was my answer. “Plenty of deer around here?”

“That’s what they say—but there ain’t none when we want to get ’em. Most of the folks in Lakeport are out, from the Chink laundryman to the sheriff.”

They drove on down the trail, but as they went I could see that they were looking back and making observations—probably on my car. Until they passed out of sight at the next curve they were still staring backwards and discussing something: either me or the car. I took for granted that it was the car, and it was.

The deer season did not interest me particularly, because I have no taste for hunting. Cursing the foot-thick dust in the road, I got into the car and went on.

At last, to my deep relief, I attained the summit of the divide, where the tollgate was located. I paid my dollar fifty and had a magnificent view of Clear Lake in the distance amid the hills, then started downward. The descent was steep enough and winding, but three miles of it brought me to the floor of the valley, in a region of jackpine and brush and hogbacks.

And, as I turned a quick curve, there before me in the road stood two deer—does. For the fraction of an instant they gazed at me, then they flung away. Like brown streaks they went over the nearest hill and were gone. Instinctively I halted the car, gazing after the graceful creatures. A moment later, I shoved my foot toward the starter, but I was still staring at the hillside; instead of touching the starter, my foot touched the accelerator—and touched it with a particular pet corn. I smothered an oath and leaned far forward to clutch my aching tow, for the stab of pain was acute. And, as I leaned over thus, a bullet came exactly where I had been sitting, at about the height my head had been.

I know it was a bullet, because I heard it—and because the effect was terrific. It plumped through the rear of the top, on one side; it passed above me, and its shrill song was lost in a rattling smash of glass as it took the top half of my windshield into slivers. Then came the crack of a rifle to prove that it had been a bullet.

If I had not happened to lean over, and to lean over pretty far, that bullet would have finished me—sure!

My first instinct was to start the car and get away; then I checked the impulse and slid out to terra firma. Someone not very far off was shooting recklessly, and it made me angry.

Hopping out in the road, I stared around. Naturally, I saw nobody. If any hunter had mistaken the maroon top for a deer, he was not advertising his mistake to me.

“Shove fer home, Balliol!” cried out a rough voice. “Shove quick, or he’ll give ye a closer one!”

The voice came from somewhere behind and to the left of the car. Balliol! I was being mistaken for Balliol—and there was no mistake being made!

As this astounding fact percolated to my brain, I wasted no time asking questions, but climbed into the car, started her up, and rolled away from here in a hurry. Balliol! Who in the name of goodness was trying to assassinate John Balliol?

In that rough voice from the hillside had been a deadly earnestness which had impelled me to flight; it brought home to me in a flash that I was up against something serious. Under the blue sky, under the hot August sunlight, the thing was extremely matter of fact. I thought again of the young man who had been jabbing my tire, and of the warning administered by M. J. B. The sequence was pretty plain!

Absurd as it seemed, this land-cruise of mine was actually taking me into perilous waters.

It was the fault of car, of course; people though that Balliol was driving it. As I rattled across a bridge and entered upon excellent dirt roads, the realization cheered me immensely. Balliol had admitted that he had gotten into trouble up here of a private nature. Well, the minute his enemies discovered that I was not John Balliol, but Yorke Desmond, I would be left alone! Yet why, in such case, had the girl warned me? I gave it up.

With a suddenness for which I was unprepared, Lakeport jumped into my immediate foreground. I had anticipated a county seat of some importance, but I found it a village straggling along the lakeshore, with a single main street and outlying residences. The valley had been settled by Missourians back in the fifties—and they were still here.

Presently I descried a charming square and courthouse, with a fine new Carnegie Library down by the lakefront. Except for a couple of docks and some moored launches and houseboats, the lakefront consisted of reed-beds and was not beautiful. But the lake itself, with the mountains opposite, was magnificent!

Volcanic action had done its work well in this place, and it was the sweetest spot I had seen in California. Once the town was wakened from its sleepy repose, it would be a second Geneva.

As the deed to my ranch had been sent on here for recording, I drove directly to the courthouse, left the car, and walked up to the county recorder’s office on the right of the main building. There I found everything in order and awaiting me. I inquired for the sheriff, meaning to set him on the trail of my near-assassin, but found that he was hunting deer. So was everyone else in town who could get away, even as my hunter-informants had stated.

I walked half a block to the bank, with whom my Los Angeles bank had corresponded. The bank was closed, for it was after four o’clock, but I telephoned and obtained admission. I presented my credentials to the banker, an extremely cordial chap, and asked directions to my property. He showed me exactly where my ranch lay and outlined the road.

“Tell me one thing confidentially,” I inquired; “do you know why Balliol left here? Do you know anything against that property—any reason why I shouldn’t have bought it?”

“Certainly not!” he answered with evident surprise. “Balliol left because of his health, I believe, and for no other reason. The property is absolutely good, and a give-away at the price, Mr. Desmond! You got a good thing.”

He was in earnest, beyond a question. But as I sought the street again I found myself wishing that he had phrased it in some other fashion than “because of his health.”

After my late experiences, it had an ominous sound!

5: I Discover Skulls

I STOPPED AT the hotel that night and the next morning departed to my ranch. It lay about twenty miles from town, by road, as I had to get around Mount Kenocti to reach it. By water it would be much closer. The ranch lay at the edge of the lake, and Balliol had done his clearing with the eye of an artist. The house itself was built of rough-hewn timber and cement, and was admirably situated at the edge of a small bluff over the water; about it stood gigantic white oaks, while the orchard ran back on the other side of the road.

Although I had half expected more excitement on my trip, I met with nothing untoward.

In Lakeport I had loaded up with camping supplies, a bit of forethought which came in handy. As I ran down the side road to the house and opened up the gates I was filled with delighted anticipation; with half an eye I could see that the place was a gem of beauty! The gates open, I ran the car inside, then shut the gates again. I was in my own domain at last.

Fortunately, I had telephoned the electric people on the previous afternoon, so that I found the electricity turned on—the place was on the power-line, which in California gives right to the juice, whether it be in a desert or a mountain canyon.

Of course, one expects to get something for ten thousand cash; but as I opened up the house and saw what things were like, I was astounded.

Balliol must have laughed in his sleeve at finding me to be an interior decorator. The place was furnished—literally crammed—with things which, in New York, would have been beyond price. They had come over with the Missourians in prairie schooners, and Balliol had bought them at various farms for a song.

There were two rosewood pianos, one an importation from Holland; several antique clocks, with original glass, in running order; the chairs were fiddlebacks of crotch-mahogany; there were two satinwood cabinets, genuine Sheratons. And the beds! Each of the two bedrooms was furnished completely in walnut; not the burl walnut of the late Victorian days, but the old carved French walnut of the earliest period. All in all, that furniture was a delight to the heart.

On the more practical side, the place was ready for use, from the bedding to the electric stove in the kitchen. By the time I had investigated everything and opened up the house, the morning was nearly gone, and it was about eleven o’clock when I descended the short path that ran down the bluff to the lakeside. Here was a boathouse, with a short dock beside it; when I had gained access to the boathouse by means of Balliol’s keys, I found a launch of small size but sturdy construction, and a fine Morris canoe. Fishing tackle swung that walls, and in one corner was a drum half filled with gasoline.

I took out my pipe and sat down in the launch. Not only was everything here which Balliol had described, but more—much more. To think of what I had dropped into astounded me. It was much too good to be true!

The acres of fruit-trees, which must be worth a good sum as income property, could no doubt be rented to neighbor ranchers. I resolved to see about it at once. All I wanted was this house and what was in it—no gentleman’s ranch for mine, but a gentleman’s country home.

My ideas had changed since seeing the place. Brought face to face with pear and walnut trees, as it were, I lost enthusiasm; fishing, tinkering with old furniture, and painting suited my lazy inclination a good deal better.

“I’ll get something to eat,” I said, knocking out my pipe into the water, “then I’ll try out the launch and visit the neighbors, and see about renting the orchard. It has a crop on right now, so it ought to be a good thing.”

I trudged back up the path, and when I reached the house I noticed a curious thing. The foundations were of cement, and a low cement wall-foundation ran the full length of the front veranda. There were a number of curious projections from that cement, and when I came up to the wall and examined them I found that they were human skulls!

The gruesome find rather staggered me. They were real skulls, set in the cement wall so as to project three or four inches, and they were in good condition. I am not superstitious, and I had no objections to this scheme of decoration on personal grounds; but it struck me that Balliol had carried his search for novelty just a bit too far.

“It’s only a step from beaux arts to bizarre,” I reflected, “and my friend Balliol seems to have taken the step. Where did he get ’em I wonder? Two—four—six—an even half dozen! Wonder if he put any more inside? I didn’t notice them—”

I hastened inside the house, my thoughts on the big hearth and chimney of cobbles; but I confess that to my relief I found it was quite lacking in further remains. All the skulls were outside.

With that, I paid little more attention to the matter, practically dismissing it from my mind—and for excellent reasons. I passed out on the veranda, meaning to go around to the car at the side of the house, and get my provisions; but at the first step I came to a dead halt, with a cold chill at my throat.

Upon the cement floor of the veranda were wet tracks; they began at the door and ended abruptly in the middle of the floor.

Yet the veranda was empty.

Those were not the tracks of a man. Something in their very appearance sent queer horror rippling through me, sent my gaze quickly over my shoulder at the empty house.

I had been gone not twenty minutes; these tracks were still wet, and whatever had made them must have come from the lake while I was down there.

Undeniably shaken by the mystery of it, I rushed back through the house to the back door. Absolutely nothing was in sight; I ran around the house, past the car, and saw nothing.

At the edge of the bluff I could see the shoreline below—and it was deserted.

I came back to the veranda and stared again at those tracks, now fast drying. They frightened me; there was something about them vaguely unnatural! And never in my life had I seen anything like them. Of course, I had opened the wide veranda window, and a bird might have walked in, then flown out and away—

But, a bird of this size? A bird from the lake? There was no other water, except in the well behind the house, from which the house itself was supplied by an electric motor.

And were those the tracks of any bird alive? I doubted it. The size was immense; the shape was that of a small central foot, with four immense toes—and beyond these the marks of long claws, unless I were mistaken!

What was the thing—monster or hallucination? I tried to argue that I was self-deceived, and I failed miserably. There were the wet prints on the cement before my eyes, slowly drying away! They could not have been made more than a few moments before I returned from the boathouse.

I felt suddenly prickly cold and very uncomfortable, and turned into the house. To go ahead with luncheon was, for the moment, impossible. I went into the living room, and, as I passed one of the two pianos, I suddenly descried a book lying open upon it.

I paused to glance at the book; to my astonishment I saw upon the printed page a cut of the exact print which I had seen on the veranda. Beneath the illustration was the legend:

Fossil imprint of Pterodactyl,

Marsh Collection, Yale College.

The realization smote me like a blow, as I leaned over the book and read. Balliol had left the book open here, of course! Balliol had seen the same prints—or had he seen the thing itself? Had he seen the living actual pterodactyl, the creature that had become extinct when the world began, the flying dragon of myth and legend? He had seen the tracks, at any rate, just as I had seen them.

This proved that I was under no delusion about those prints. But—was the thing credible? It was not. The bowl of this lake was an ancient volcano, the whole valley was of volcanic creation; mineral springs abounded; a few miles distant were quicksilver mines; the water in my own well was mineralized. Now, I had read stories about prehistoric monsters coming back to the world via extinct volcanoes and bottomless lakes, and so forth—stories, that is, which were purely fiction. Had such a thing really come about here in Lake County, California, upon my own ranch?

“Not by a damn sight!” I exclaimed, throwing the book across the room. “Balliol was frightfully nervous; I’m not. He may have been frightened out of here by his imagination—but I’m going to be shown!”

Then and there I dismissed the unnatural fears which had shaken me. If the creature existed, I would shoot it; if the whole affair were one of those queer mental quirks which come to all men, if the prints were caused by some natural agency not at the moment obvious to my deduction, well and good.

I went around to the car and hauled in my provisions. The electricity was on in the house, and I got the electric range working and managed to make myself a fairly decent meal. At times I found myself desirous of casting quick glances over my shoulder, at windows or doors, but I repressed it firmly. I was not going to get into Balliol’s condition if I could help it.

Lunch over, I dragged a rocker to the veranda and enjoyed a smoke, with the beauties of the lake outspread before me. By reason of a deep indendation of the lakeshore, the bluff on which my house was built faced almost due east; opposite me, across the bight, I saw the roofs of a farmhouse, doubtless my nearest neighbor in that direction.

It occurred to me that if I wanted to talk business, the noon hour would be an excellent time to do it.

So I went down to the boathouse again, opened up the water doors, and filled the boat’s tank with gas. She was in good shape, and almost with the first turn of the wheel the spark caught. A moment later I was chugging out into the lake, feeling intensely pleased with myself, and I headed directly down to my neighbor’s dock among the tules or reeds.

The neighbor himself I found sitting on his front porch. He was a brawny, bearded man of stolidly slow speech, Henry Dawson by name. I introduced myself as the new owner of Balliol’s ranch, and was in turn introduced to Mrs. Dawson and two strapping Dawson boys. They all eyed me with frank curiosity.

I lost no time in setting forth my business. Dawson, like all farmers, was content to let me talk as long as I would. When I cautiously broached the subject of renting my land, however, he nodded his head in slow assent.

“Ought to rent,” he stated, as though he thought just the opposite. “Maybe. Don’t know as folks would want the house, though.”

“I want that myself,” I said. “What I want to rent is the fruit land. Could you handle it?”

At this direct assault, he hemmed and hawed. He was a very decent chap, however, and when I make it clear that I was not after extortionate rentals he came around quickly. I could see the house had killed the place, for some reason.

“Just what’s the matter with that house?” I demanded, while he was making up his mind about rental. “Is it those skulls in the front wall?”

“Blamed if I know,” he rejoined slowly. “Reckon it’s that, much as anything. Gives folks a creepy feelin’.”

“Why didn’t Balliol get along there?”

He gave me a slow stare. “Get along? Why, I guess he got along all right. He was kind o’ queer in his ways, ye might say; but he got along right well, Mr. Desmond.”

“Where on earth did he get those skulls, though?”

“Dug ’em up right on the ground, I heard. He done all the work himself on that house, except what he hired done. Guess it was an old Injun cemetery; there was a heap of Injuns here in the old days. Quite a bunch here yet. They sent ’em to a reservation, but the poor devils got homesick and were ’lowed back. Right prosperous farmers, some of ’em, today. Well, about that orchard, I reckon we can manage it if we settle on the right terms.”

We settled, then and there, at terms which were satisfactory to both of us.

6: I Buy a Gun

I ASKED DAWSON about big birds, but he said there was nothing larger than a buzzard around the lake; and presently I went home again. The rest of the day passed quietly, and after writing a few letters, chiefly on business, I went to bed and slept the sleep of the just.

I was well satisfied with my new home, and for the coming six months my partner in New York could run the decorating business without my aid, so there was nothing to worry me.

The next morning I was up and off early, this time in the canoe, and got in an hour’s fishing before sunrise. Although it was distinctly the wrong season for fish, I trolled down along the shore off the reed-beds, and picked up two fine bass, both over three pounds.

About sunrise I headed for home, well content with results. I wanted to visit Lakeport this morning, chiefly to see if there was any news from my Los Angeles bank about those checks. That Balliol had struggled along in poverty on his ranch, as the newspaper account had said, was quite absurd; that he had died in poverty, with eleven thousand dollars in his pocket, was entirely nonsensical.

Across the little bay from my place I paused suddenly. I had already learned from neighbor Dawson that Balliol had obtained his skull-decoration from relics of the red men, so their gruesomeness was removed in some measure. But—that did not explain what I now saw.

As it chanced, I had found a pair of field-glasses in a niche in the cobbled chimney, and had brought them along. Now I raised and focused on my house; rather, on the front wall under the veranda, where the skulls were located. To my uneasy surprise, I found my eyesight corroborated. The eyes of those six skulls were gleaming and flaming with a brilliant crimson!

Optical delusion? Not a bit of it. Reflections from the rising sun to the bone-level? Not a bit of it; such reflections would not come in a scarlet flame from the eyes of each and every skull. They were reflecting the lurid sunrise squarely at me, of course; but those hollow eye-sockets were filled with red fire.

I dropped the glasses, seized the paddle, and spurted for home, savagely determined to run down the uncanny hoodoo which had settled on this house of mine. As I drew nearer to my landing, I could see those red skull-eyes flaming more and more distinctly. There was no optical illusion whatever.

Then I was in the boathouse beneath the bluff, and of course the house was shut from view. Making fast the canoe, I paused to pick up a broken oar to serve as club, then ran up the path. Puffing, I gained the bluff in front of the house.

“Confound it!” I exclaimed blankly. “Am I going off my head?”

The crimson flame was gone from the skull-eyes. There was not a sign of it. In the sockets the white cement came close to the surface, and there could be no mistake.

I was completely taken aback by this startling development.

Of course, I told myself, there must be an explanation. Perhaps the sand in the cement was glassy, and at certain angles reflected the sun—that would be plausible in a single instance, but it would not do for twelve eye-sockets. Whatever the explanation might be, it was certainly beyond my comprehension. Then, again, the color of those eye-sockets had been a distinct blood hue.

As I stood there staring at the cement wall, I jumped suddenly. From the kitchen of the house came a banging crash, and I remembered a double boiler I had set out on the stove. Someone—or something—was in the kitchen, and had knocked it over!

Swearing under my breath, I leaped to the veranda and ran through the house. Now, I glanced at every room in my course; and I can swear that the house was absolutely empty. So was the kitchen when I reached it. Yet by the stove, whence it had obviously been knocked by some direct agency, the double boiler lay on the floor, a pool of water surging from it, and running directly to the stove from the doorway—but not back again—was a single line of muddy tracks. They were the tracks of the pterodactyl!

I was staggered, right enough. A prehistoric monster with a wing-spread of twenty-five feet does not hide easily in a bare kitchen; yet I looked around as if expecting to see the brute before me. Then I rushed to the windows. The yard was absolutely empty. The monster might be somewhere in the encircling trees; it might have flown out and down to the lake while I was coming through the house; but, by the gods; it had been here. Those muddy tracks on the floor reassured me, certified to my sanity and common sense.

Hastening outside, I looked around. The barn, which served as garage, was empty. I could discover no hole about the house where any such beast could hide. I flung my club whirring amid the nearest trees, and strode back into the house.

“Damn it!” I remarked as I set about cooking my two fish. “I’m going to get a shotgun and settle this mystery. I don’t believe in fictionists’ dreams coming true; and as for this flying dragon, I’ll settle him with buckshot if I get one crack at him.”

The red eyes of the skulls had paled into insignificance before this mysterious visitant, and I forgot the lesser matter for the time being. That double boiler knocked off the stove, and those muddy tracks, settled the pterodactyl once and for all as a living creature, and I meant to go after him. I only regretted that I must have missed him by less than a minute.

My second day in my new home was beginning in a way to make me realize why Balliol had come to Los Angeles with the jumps riding him.

An hour after these things happened I had closed up the house and was chugging merrily away from the boathouse in my launch. Navigation was no difficult problem here; I merely had to head straight up the lake, which I did. The voyage was monotonous, as are all launch trips in ordinary craft, and as I throbbed along the wind-ruffled water the memory of M. J. B. recurred to me with a twinge of self-irritation that I had not even her name.

Why had she warned me? And who was the dark-complected chap who had cut at my tires back at McGray’s Tavern? And who had fired that shot at me? These were perplexing problems, but M. J. B. was more perplexing yet. I once again pictured her face before my mental vision, the trim sweetness of her, the capable manner which she wore, the energetic womanhood that lay in her blue eyes—

“Hang it!” I exclaimed. “I’m getting romantic—it won’t do, Yorke Desmond! You’ll never see that girl again, so forget her.”

Easier said than done. I was still thinking of her as I tied up to the dock at Lakeport and walked uptown past the library to the main street. And within five minutes I was thinking of her again.

The telegraph-office was a dingy little place, messages being received here by phone. When I inquired for any wires, the young lady in charge handed me an envelope. I found it to be a night-letter from the cashier of my bank in Los Angeles. It read as follows:

Check for ten thousand, cashed yesterday First National, San Francisco, returned here this afternoon. Endorsements John Balliol, Martha J. Balliol. No further developments suicide. Good luck with ranch.

The ulterior meaning of this message gradually percolated through my brain, and I wandered forth to a bench on the courthouse square and sank to rest.

The check had been cashed the same morning I left San Francisco, and it had been cashed by Martha J. Balliol—no other than M. J. B.! No wonder she had seemed to know my name, when she must have borne in her pocketbook that check of mine! Balliol had given it to her the previous night, just before his suicide; so much was evident.

But—she had been Balliol’s sister, then! Why had she not admitted her identity? Perhaps she would have done so, I argued, but for the news of her brother’s death. After that, to find herself traveling in her brother’s car, with the man who had bought that car and the ranch to boot, must have disconcerted her immensely at first. And after telling me that she was a friend of Balliol, she probably had lacked the nerve to confess her white lie and give her real name. Perhaps she had merely considered it unnecessary.

I felt relieved. Folly though it undoubtedly was, I had indulged a secret conviction that M. J. B. was Balliol’s sweetheart; now she proved to be his sister, but although this fact afforded great relief, it none the less gave me new anxiety. I have always noticed that girls, especially very charming and attractive girls like Martha Balliol, are all too seldom free and heart-whole. Somebody else always seems to get acquainted with them first. That was one reason that I was still a bachelor!

But never had I met anyone like Martha Balliol. The more I thought about her, the more I felt like a fool for having left her in San Francisco as I had done. At last, realizing that I had bungled everything very sadly, and that it was now close to noon and I was hungry, I got up and sauntered toward the bank seeking information. On the way, however, I passed a hardware store, and bethought me of the pterodactyl. There was an attractive display of guns in the window, so I entered and besought the proprietor to sell me a shotgun.

“Want a license, I s’pose?” he inquired amiably. “I’m the game warden here, y’know. I dunno why you’re goin’ after deer with a shotgun—”

“I’m not,” I rejoined. “I’m going after pterodactyls, and there’s no closed season on them!”

He rubbed his chin, and with a mystified air agreed with me. “Well, I reckon not. Say, you the man just bought the Balliol ranch?”

“Yes. Desmond is my name.”

“Stark’s mine. Glad to meet ye. Seen any ghosts around there yet?”

“Ghosts?” I met his eye, and he chuckled. “What do you mean?”

“Well, that place is built right close to where the old Injun chiefs is buried, and I hear tell they’s ghosts around there at times.”

“Nothing doing,” I rejoined cheerfully. “Not so far, anyhow. Where’s the best place to get a meal in town?”

“Well, ye might go several places, but if I was you, I’d go up to Mrs. Sinjon’s, back o’ the courthouse.”

He directed me, and leaving the shotgun until after luncheon, I went to the boardinghouse back of the town square.

Ghosts, eh? That was a new angle. Had the natives played unpleasant jokes upon John Balliol, because of his skull decorations? No; the very notion was silly. Grave, stolid farmer folks like Dawson were not given to such trivial foolishness. Besides, Balliol’s affrighted nerves must have come from months and years of fear, not days or weeks. And jokes do not extend over months and years.

I found the boardinghouse simple and thoroughly delightful, the cooking wholesome, the company very mixed, ranging from a stage driver to an itinerant preacher. It was a warm noon, and conversation flagged. I was just finishing my meal, when, in the intermittent and broken-off speech of farming men, two workmen at the other end of the table spoke.

“Heard young Balliol’s sister come in this mornin’,” said one.

“Uhuh,” said the other, and looked toward the stage driver. “Good looker, Mac?”

The stage driver glanced up. “Got him beat all hollow,” he observed. “Come in on the morning train. Going up the lake, I reckon.”

I paid for my meal and departed, feeling a bit dizzy. Balliol’s sister! What the deuce was she doing here?

Calling for my gun at the hardware store, I arranged about mail at the post-office, then went down to the dock. And out on the dock, all alone, she was standing!

7: I Make Discoveries

TO SEE ME sauntering along with a gun under my arm, seemed to cause her some alarm. And, too, she seemed very self-repressive; her greeting was cold. Then, with a quick change of mood, she smiled.

“Are you going hunting like everyone else, Mr. Desmond?”

“I am, Miss Balliol,” I responded.

An adorable flush stole into her cheeks, but her blue eyes did not falter.

“I must apologize for that,” she said simply. “It was abominable! But at first, I—I said that I was a friend—”

“And you turned out to be a sister,” I cut in. “Please, Miss Balliol, don’t explain; I figured it out for myself later on, and I understand perfectly. But, if it is not an impertinence, may I ask what on earth you’re doing here? This is an outlandish place in which to meet anyone—particularly a person of whom one has thought so much and often.”

Her gaze dwelt upon me thoughtfully, searchingly, even suspiciously.

“To be candid, Mr. Desmond, I hadn’t the least intention of confiding in you,” she stated coolly. “But I can’t help believing that you are honest—”

“Oh! Who said that I wasn’t?”

“You implied as much—by buying my brother’s property here.”

“Thanks,” I murmured, feeling pretty well dazed.

“I am going to Dawson’s farm for a short visit,” she went on. “If you care to see me there, I’ll be very glad to explain matters fully. I think the up-lake launch is about due.”

I did not know anything about the up-lake launch, but I took chances.

“No,” I said positively. “She ran on a mud bar this morning and is stuck with a broken propeller. If you want to get to Dawson’s, will you let me take you in my launch? There’s not another to be hired, I assure you. Besides, it will let us talk on the way.”

I have a suspicion that she knew that I was lying; but if so, she did not mind. At all events, she accepted my invitation. As she had only her suitcase, we were chugging away from Lakeport inside of ten minutes. She added to the mystery by stating that Dawson’s took boarders, and that, while she was totally unknown here, she had determined to pay a visit to the lake on business. I began to feel somewhat uncomfortable.

“There are several things to straighten out, Miss Balliol,” I observed. “First, your remarks about my honesty. Then, if you remember, when I told you about your brother, you exclaimed that ‘they’ had killed him—”

She whitened a little.

“Please!” She checked me swiftly. “Let me take things in order, Mr. Desmond. I should not have made that remark about your honesty; it required another apology from me. Now, let me get these things out.”

She opened her handbag and began to look over papers. Meantime, she went on to give me some idea of her brother’s past life, and of her own.

Balliol, senior, who had been a wealthy lawyer in Boston, had died suddenly, six years previously. He had left few resources except a family residence near Boston, and two small, undeveloped ranches here in Lake County. Martha Balliol had at once fitted herself for a position as stenographer, remaining at home with her mother. John Balliol, a boy nearly through Harvard, had come to California and had set to work developing the two ranches on Clear Lake.

He had worked like a Trojan, too. As the girl told me of what he had accomplished lone-handed, I felt a pang of pity for him. Two years before this present time, he had sold one of the ranches for a handsome sum. He had sent a large part of the money home to relieve conditions there and pay off the mortgage on the family home. Then, meaning to bring his mother and sister to Clear Lake, he had built his house on the twenty-acre ranch, and had built it well. The work had taken him nearly a year, for he had done most of it with his own hands.

During that time, however, some trouble had developed. To balance this, he had made money off his crops, and had ordered his Paragon car, specially built. What with one thing and another, he had spent every red cent that he could raise, being confident of the future.

“Then,” went on the girl, “the trouble increased. What it was, I don’t know; I can’t find out! He only wrote about it once, and then he sent this photograph. It explains itself, so far as I can discover. Jack must have made an enemy of this man, and took his picture while they were having an argument. That was like Jack—he had no lack of nerve.”

“Or of nerves either,” I added to myself, as I took the letter and picture which she handed me.

The picture was a Kodak snapshot of a very angry young man shaking his fist at the camera. There was no doubt about his anger; a snarling, venomous rage was stamped all over him! As I recognized his face, however, an exclamation escaped me; for, beyond all question, it was the same swarthy young man who had tried to cut my tires at McGray’s Tavern.

“What’s the matter?” broke out Miss Balliol. “You know him?”

“I’ve seen him,” I commented. “Tell you about it in a minute.”

Beneath the picture was written: “John Talkso registering rage.”

Taking the letter, I read a marked paragraph. It dealt with the same John Talkso, a name whose very queerness made me wonder what nationality the young man could be. Balliol had not explained this, but had written:

Am having more trouble with the individual whose picture I enclose. However, I hope to obviate further trouble with him. The whole thing is so silly that one hesitates to write any explanation. Don’t worry about it.

That was finely indefinite, was it not? It was.

“About six months ago,” resumed Miss Balliol, “we got into terrible trouble, and I was afraid to write Jack about it, because we were trying so hard not to increase his worries. Mother was very ill and we had to mortgage the house again; then a private bank failed—a bank in which father had left us a block of stock. The stock had never been any good, and then on the failure of the bank we had to pay a tremendous assessment to secure the depositors—and that finished everything for us. Mother died suddenly. When it was all over, I wrote Jack what had happened. Then I went back to work.”

I did not hasten her recital, and she paused for a few moments. We were chugging merrily down the lake, and the heat of the sun was relieved by a cool breeze which brought stray locks of Martha Balliol’s hair about her face in distracting fashion.

“It was a hard blow to Jack, of course,” she went on. “Now, what has happened I don’t know and can’t discover, Mr. Desmond. He wired me a month ago to meet him in Los Angeles at once—he wrote little or nothing in the interim. I came to Los Angeles and he did not turn up; I could not get into touch with him at all. Then, one morning, he called me up on the telephone and told me to catch the night train to San Francisco, and to meet him at the station an hour before the train left.

“I felt that something terrible was happening, but he gave no explanation. When we met at the station, he was a nervous wreck, and he was frightfully mysterious about everything. He told me to go on to San Francisco and that I’d hear from him en route.”

“How did you recognize his car from the train?” I broke in. “You’d never seen it.”

“No, but he had sent us the colored picture when he had ordered it built, and he had sent photographs of it after he had received it—it’s such a distinctive car that no one could possibly mistake it!”

That was true enough, as I had discovered.

“Well, that night at the station,” she pursued, “Jack gave me an envelope and said to open it after the train had started; he made me promise him. Then he kissed me good-by and said not to worry, that he had fixed everything all right for me. That’s the last I saw of him, Mr. Desmond. Later—on the train—I opened his letter and found your check to him, with this note.”

She handed me a note in Balliol’s writing, which read as follows:

Dearest Sis:

The game’s up as far as I’m concerned; you’ll hear about it soon enough. They were too much for me at the ranch. They drove me out, to put it bluntly. If I hadn’t had too much cursed pride, I might have done otherwise; but I fought them, and now they’ll get me sure if I go back.

Besides this, I’ve got in bad with another deal. If I go through with it, then you’ll lose everything, and I can’t face it. I guess I’m pretty well broken down, sis. I’ve been a fool, that’s all. There’s only one way to secure to you what can be secured, and I’ve taken it. I’ve sold the ranch for ten thousand, which is far below its value, and enclose the check. Cash it immediately in San Francisco. Good-by, dear little sis, and make the best of it.

Jack

That was on the face of it a cowardly letter, considering that an hour later Balliol had killed himself; but I could not help remembering all that he must have endured and fought for in the past years.

“Still we haven’t solved the secret of the mysterious ‘they,’” I observed, “except that John Talkso, whoever he is, is concerned in it. This letter, too, speaks of another deal—vague and mysterious as ever. Miss Balliol, do you have any idea why your brother did what he did in Los Angeles?”

She shook her head. His suicide was still a mystery to her.

I told her about my encounter with John Talkso, and with the shot from the hills. She had warned me in San Francisco merely on impulse, for she had felt that there was something vaguely but distinctly hostile about that ranch; also, she had been distrustful of me, for she had imagined that I might have been concerned in some conspiracy to beat down the value of the ranch and get it cheap. There is the contradiction of woman for you!

Well, inside of twenty minutes we were on solid footing of friendship. I managed to convince her as to my entire ignorance of the trouble; and I could see that the poor girl had been driven nearly wild by the mystery which had shrouded Balliol’s latter days.

As we drew up the lake, I suggested to Martha Balliol that she might care to stop at the ranch and look over the house.

“There may be books or other personal belongings of your brother’s that you’d like to keep,” I explained. “Really, Miss Balliol, I’d feel much relieved if you’d go through his effects and take everything that you’d like to have. I’ve felt very badly over the deal, because I’ve seemed to take undue advantage of his circumstances; and I feel as though some reparation and expiation were due you.”

Later, I thought, I’d add at least five thousand to the purchase price of the ranch, but of course this was not the moment to broach such a matter. Since it was early in the afternoon, Miss Balliol thanked me and consented to stop in at the ranch, for Dawson’s lay just across the bay and we could run over there in ten minutes.

Accordingly, we ran in to the dock, and on this occasion there was no red flare in the skull-sockets. Nor did I say anything to her about the skulls, for the subject was not a very pleasant one to bring before the girl’s mind. I was careful to steer her up the hill and then around to the side of the house, and as we reached it, I heard a bell buzzing away.

“Hello!” I ejaculated. “I ordered the telephone unplugged this morning—the instrument was in, of course. Someone’s calling to see if the line’s working, maybe. Go right in and make yourself at home, Miss Balliol—I’ll answer the call.”

The telephone was in the kitchen, and a moment later I was at the instrument.

“Yorke Desmond speaking!” I said. “Hello?”

It was my friend the banker at Lakeport speaking; and what he had to say was one little earful—it certainly was! What he wanted from me was the address of John Balliol, for no one in these parts seemed to know that Balliol was dead. I wanted to know why he wanted it.

Being a banker, he was mighty hard to pin down and hold on the mat; but at last I made him cough up the information. It appeared that some time previously Balliol had gone on the note of a friendly rancher to the tune of six thousand dollars. Fire had wiped out the rancher’s property—this was over in High Valley—and the man himself had broken both legs in an accident; and it was up to John Balliol to make good the six thousand, now overdue.

“What date was it due?” I demanded. The banker told me. That note had become due the day after I had bought the Balliol ranch!

“You listen here,” I said, thinking fast. “I’ll come in to Lakeport tomorrow and see you; and I’ll make good that sum. Savvy? Never mind my reasons. I owe Balliol that money, so I’ll explain further tomorrow.”

I rang off and dropped into the nearest chair.

Light on the subject? I should say so! This was the “other deal” to which Balliol had referred; and he sure had been a fool to endorse the other man’s note. He knew it, also, and knew that to make it good would wipe him out. That was why he had given up the fight.

He had sold out his ranch to me at a give-away price, in order to secure the ten thousand to his sister. He had given her the money, then had killed himself. He had left no estate whatever. Whether or not the law could reach that ten thousand, I did not know; at all events, he had, of course, figured that it was safe to Martha. The banker had told me that Balliol had sent back one thousand from Los Angeles—the thousand which I had given him for his car, of course.

This explained Balliol’s haste to get the money. It did not explain the enmity which had existed between Balliol and this John Talkso, but of that I took little heed at the moment. Instead of giving Martha Balliol the extra five thousand, I would pay it over to the bank, clear Balliol’s name, and square myself with the dead man, as I looked at it. Martha Balliol need never know of it.

I had figured this out to my own satisfaction as the best possible course, when from the front of the house I heard a cry, followed by a scream. Then I remembered that cursed pterodactyl, for the first time!

8: I Go Hunting

MARTHA BALLIOL had fallen against the cobbled chimney of the fireplace, and lay in a crumpled heap, arms outflung. To my horror, I thought her dead—then I saw, upon the floor, the muddy tracks of the flying dragon. She stirred a little, and at the motion, I leaped for the door.

The room was empty save for the girl, but I knew that the creature was somewhere close at hand—and I had left the shotgun in the boat!

I went down the path like a madman, secured the gun, tore open the box of shells, and as I ran back up to the house I loaded both chambers. As I came to the doorway, I saw that Martha Balliol was sitting up, holding one hand to her head. She stared at me.

“What—what was it?” she exclaimed.

“That’s what I want to know.” I turned my back on her, perhaps ungallantly, to seek some sign of movement from the yard. Nothing stirred. If the thing had been here, it had gone quickly; it had vanished among the trees. “I heard you scream—”

“Something—someone—came up behind and pushed me.” Martha Balliol was standing now, and anger was flashing in her blue eyes. “I heard nothing at all; the surprise made me scream, and I must have fallen against the stones, here—”

She suddenly saw the tracks upon the floor, and paused. Her eyes widened with a swift fear as she pointed to them. I nodded carelessly, then left the door and placed a chair for her.

Without exaggeration, but omitting nothing, I told her about the skull-eyes which I had seen only that morning, and also of the pterodactyl. She listened in silence, but her incredulous gaze made me squirm a bit.

“You speak as if you believe it,” she commented at last.

“Look at the tracks for yourself!” I countered. Then, getting her Balliol’s book, I showed her the illustration in question.

That shook her fine scorn of the story. She declared herself quite unhurt and refused to let the matter drop; but sat in thoughtful silence for a little.

“There’s something queer about this house!” she said at last, and rose. “Let’s look at those skulls, Mr. Desmond! I believe Jack said something about them in one of his letters, but I don’t remember the exact words—they were Indian relics, I believe. He did not say that he was building them into the house!”

Together we went outside, and while she inspected the skulls, I scrutinized the trees and shores, but vainly. The devilish thing had hidden itself absolutely, and I could see no particular sense in going to find it.

“I can’t honestly say that I care for this scheme of decoration,” declared Martha Balliol. “Jack was always given to odd notions like this, however. As for your story of the red eyes—well, I’ll pass on it when I see them for myself! Now let’s go up and look at the house; that is, if you still care to have me do so.”

“Do you still want to?” I queried, surprised by her coolness. “You’ve had a shock—”

“I’ve been very silly, you mean,” she corrected me severely, as we walked toward the steps. “About this prehistoric thing, Mr. Desmond—didn’t you say that the steps always came in to the center of the room, then ended? The footprints, I mean. Well, that does not look right to me. Of course, the creature might have come so far, then have flown away—”

“You admit there’s a creature, then?” I struck in.

“I admit there’s something to make those tracks,” she said, and laughed merrily. “I wish I had looked over my shoulder when I felt the shove!”

“Perhaps the confounded place is haunted,” I said gloomily.

We spent half an hour going over the house. Miss Balliol picked out a few pictures and other things which she would like to have, and I promised to pack them up for her. She was planning to stay for a week or two with the Dawsons.

Although she did not say it in so many words, I realized that her reason for coming here had been to settle the mystery which surrounded her brother’s death. And she would settle it. There was no doubt that within a few days she would find out about that note at the bank. The other trouble, the trouble which had smashed Balliol’s nerves and which was somehow concerned with John Talkso, whoever he was, lay in the background unsolved.

So, when she had finished with the house, I told her frankly what the banker had just telephoned to me. To be more exact, I told it with some additions and evasions, for I did not think it necessary to say that I was paying off the five thousand. I got around that by saying that the creditor had paid up, having unexpectedly gotten some money, and that the banker had phoned to let Balliol know it was all right.

Beyond question I got things a little involved, but Martha Balliol did not probe the story. To her mind, her brother might still have been living had he only learned in time that he would not have to meet the note. It was a sad business, of course. Out of justice to the dead chap, I felt in honor bound to relate his reasons for suicide, which did his heart better credit that his head.

Yes, taking it up and down, it was a sorry and sordid and a dashed brave little story. Balliol was a fool and a coward, perhaps, but the thing he did was done in a bravely silent fashion.

Martha Balliol cried a little, and tried to laugh a little; but she finished with a clear and sober understanding of why her brother had killed himself. Then she said that she thought I had better taken her on to Dawson’s by road, the sun being pretty hot on the water; so I went out and got the car ready. And I kept the shotgun handy.

The road, which ran down along the lakeshore, was very dusty—the dust was six inches deep in places. This did not trouble the Paragon, of course, and we hummed into the Dawson yard in fine fettle. Mrs. Dawson was there to receive us, and under her wing Martha Balliol vanished almost at once.

I paused to help myself to a few nectarines from a tree near the house, then set forth for home. I drove rather fast, for the road was good; and I got almost to my own place when something happened. Both front tires blew at the same instant!

Fortunately the Paragon was a heavy boat, or we’d have gone topsy-turvy; as it was, I almost went into the trees. Of course cord tires do not act as those had acted without very definite reasons. The reasons were in the shape of stout nails, set in scraps of board which had been buried in the dust. I am afraid that I said some very unscriptural things as I drove home on the rims.

Who was the miscreant? The thing was intentional; those bits of board had been planted since I had left home. I cursed some more, while I sat working on the tubes and then pumping up the refitted tires sufficiently to reach Lakeport and an air hose.

One thing was sure: I had inherited John Balliol’s enemies! Of this I had not further doubt. If someone were lurking about the place, it was a case of catch or get caught! And the afternoon was young, or young enough, to do a good deal of catching in!

With these brilliant deductions crowding me into action, I began to use my head a little. Obviously, I had two sets of enemies—human and inhuman. The human type was very possibly the man John Talkso. The inhuman was the pterodactyl. I was as much concerned over one as over the other; and as I abandoned my tire labors and glanced up at the house, a sudden scheme struck me.

I picked up my shotgun and sauntered around to the front of the house. For a moment I stood at the lip of the bluff, watching the water and shore, planning just what I would do. Then I hurried down the path to the boathouse, and beneath its shelter laid the gun in the canoe and covered it with fishing tackle and some burlap. After this, I shoved out and paddled down the shore, away from Dawson’s.

Since I kept close in to the shore, I was in five minutes beyond sight of my place, and to anyone watching, was off for a fishing trip. But I jerked in to shore and landed before I had gone fifty feet farther. Pulling up the canoe, I stowed it among the bushes, took my shotgun, and struck directly up the steep slope.

It was a hard scramble, but I made it, and in fifteen minutes I gained the road, hot and puffing. I was not a mile from the house, and I went down the road at a good walking clip, certain of being unobserved. The trees to either hand effectually concealed me.

When at length the trees opened up to the left, I had an excellent view of my house and farmyard. I paused, made myself comfortable among the trees, got my pipe going, and began to watch, flattering myself that I had flanked the entire place very neatly. I was well placed to see whatever was going on. But nothing was going on, it seemed. Things happened around that place in bunches, and just now was a quiet moment.

I sat with the gun over my knees, and reflected that this had been a crowded day. It was very nice to think that Martha Balliol was just across the bay at Dawson’s farm. The neighborhood seemed very agreeable to me. Of course, the poor girl was overcome because of her brother, but this was a grief which lay in the past; she had nothing unhappy ahead of her. I wished that I were as sure of the same for myself—

Then, abruptly, in the sunlight-flooded clearing around my house, I saw that for which I had been watching and waiting!

9: I Meet John Talkso

IN PLAIN SIGHT of me, walking out across the open space toward my house, was a man. He carried a bucket in one hand, and a basket in the other hand. These he set down at the veranda steps, and then turned, scrutinizing the lake and shore. His face showed clearly.

A low word escaped me as I watched. I recognized that face on the instant; he was no other than the enemy of John Balliol, the man whom I had met at McGray’s Tavern—the man with the queer name of John Talkso! An instant later he had vanished inside the house.

“Now,” I said to myself, “here’s one mystery about to be solved in a hurry!”

A moment longer I waited. Talkso appeared again, stooped over the basket he had been carrying, and then went around to the front of my house; when he did there, I could not see. He reappeared, took up both bucket and basket, and went into the house.

I started for the house with the gun under my arm, both barrels loaded.

When I got safely over the gate and into the yard, I knew that I had my man this time; there was going to be an explanation! To judge from his attire when I had seen him at McGray’s Tavern, this Talkso had money—and he was going to settle what he owed me, chiefly in the matter of tires. What he was doing in my house was another thing. And if he had fired that bullet at me from the hills—

At that juncture I heard the telephone ringing. The kitchen windows were open and I stole toward the back entrance. An instant later, I heard a man speaking at the telephone; Talkso was answering the call! His infernal imprudence made me chuckle, for at the instrument he must be standing with his back to the door. He was playing directly into my hand!

“He’s not here—out fishing,” I heard him say. Somebody, obviously, was asking for me. “Who’s this? Oh, hello! This you, Sheriff West?”

There was a moment of silence, during which time I gained the back door and paused. Talkso was standing at the telephone, right enough, entirely unconscious of my presence.

“The hell you say!” he exclaimed suddenly, a snarling intonation in his voice. “None of your cursed business what I’m doing here, Mr. West! What? You come out here if you want to—I’ll be gone by then.”

Again he paused, and again made angry response to the sheriff.

“Nonsense! You’ve nothing on me—don’t try bluffing me, Mr. West! You can’t do it. That shot? Go ahead and tell Desmond all you want! You know damned well you can’t prove anything on me, and I know it too! I’ll have Desmond out of here inside of a week—oh, I won’t, eh? Much you know about it!”

With a snarling oath, he slammed the receiver on the hook.

As he did so, I pushed open the screen door and stepped inside. Talkso caught the squeak of the door, and whirled about like a cat.

“I guess the sheriff was right, Talkso,” I said cordially, over the sights of my shotgun. “Hoist your hands—thank you; that’s the way it’s done in the films. So the sheriff’s coming out here, eh? Good thing. He can take you back with him, unless we come to terms.”

Talkso stood perfectly motionless, his hands slightly raised. The surprise of my appearance had confounded him; but now passionate rage convulsed his swarthy features, and in the snaky blackness of his eyes flicked a scornful hatred. The contempt expressed in his eyes rendered me uneasy.

“You!” he uttered, flinging the word at me in almost inarticulate fury. “What d’you think you’re doing, anyway?”

“I don’t think,” I assured him. “I’m perfectly confident about it, my friend. By the way, did you fire a shot at my car the other day, mistaking me for Balliol?”

“I wish to hell the bullet had got you!” he foamed.

“You’re a charitable cuss. And since then, you’ve given me a lot of tire trouble, to say the least. What’s the idea, anyhow? What’s back of the feud between you and Balliol?”

He seemed to take no notice of the question.

“You poor fool!” he said scornfully. “I could have killed you any time in the past day or two—”

“Well, you didn’t,” I chipped in. “Come ahead and loosen up! Let’s have an explanation!”

To my horror, I realized that he was coming at me; he had the silky, invisible movement of a snake. To blast the life out of his with that shotgun was impossible. He seemed to be leaning forward, leaning toward me, farther and farther—and then he was in the air and on me.

He gripped me and the gun together, and we struggled for it. I was ready enough to drop the gun and slam into him with my fists, but I saw no use in letting him perforate me with my own gun. So I hung on, and we fought it out by arm-power.

In the middle of it, we lost balance and went to the floor—and the shotgun went off with a deafening explosion, between us.

I realized quickly enough that I was not hurt, and rolled backward, leaping to my feet. Both barrels had exploded, sending both charges into the telephone, which hung wrecked and useless against the wall. Talkso was not hurt either. First thing I knew, he was up and coming at me with a yell, brandishing the shotgun like a club.

According to jiu-jitsu experts, the easiest thing in the world is to lay out a man bearing down on you with a club. As it happens, I am not a jiu-jitsu expert.

Talkso had been an easy mark in the road by McGray’s, but he was something else now. He shoved the butt of the gun into my stomach, and when I doubled over, he slammed me over the skull with the barrel. Then he swung up the gun for a finishing stroke.

By this time I was just beginning to realize that it was me for swift action or the count, and I came out of my dream. To be candid, it was only in books that two men get into a hot mix-up and follow the Queensberry rules with meticulous chivalry; in a real scrap of real men, it’s hit hardest with anything that will count!

I followed the most natural rules, and being backed against the stove, I went for Talkso with an iron skillet that was handy. I ducked the gun in a hurry, and to even matters I dropped the skillet and began to finish off his education.

He knew something about fighting, and he tried to fight, but that skillet had him groggy from the start. In about two minutes he was trying to get through the door, so I let him out—and hopped right after him. I caught him by the pump, and laid him out finely.

When he came to himself, I had him tied wrists and ankles with dust-cloths from the car, and was wasting good mineral water pumping over his torso. In spite of all my kindness, however, he would do nothing except splutter curses at me, so finally I tired of trying.

“Very well, then, lie there and talk to yourself!” I stated in disgust. “When the sheriff gets here, maybe we’ll learn a few things.”

I was dead right about that, too!

10: I Build a Wall

ON THE MORNING after my encounter with John Talkso, I was working like a beaver on the skull wall in front of my house. I had been working there since dawn.

In front of the wall, I had a solid framework of staked boards, edge to edge, six inches from the wall’s face. The end spaces were closed with other boards. From the shore I had toted barrow-loads of sand until my palms were blistered, and from the barn behind the house I had brought a couple of sacks of cement which had lain there unmolested. For lack of a mixing bed I was utilizing a depression in the rock at the head of the path. Boulders of all sizes were handy, and with these I had partially filled the space in front of the wall, enclosed by the boards.

I mixed my concrete rapidly and after four or five batches had been shoveled into the gap, my work was done. The former face of the wall, together with the protruding skulls, was nicely buried behind six inches of concrete.

I was lighting my pipe and vastly admiring my handiwork, when I heard a voice.

“Mercy! What on earth is the matter with your telephone? Here I’ve walked all the was over here just to see if the pterodactyl had eaten you up—”

It was Martha J. Balliol, flushed and laughing.

“Hurray!” I exclaimed. “I’ve been building a wall—sure, the phone is wrecked! But I have a few things to show you; important things, too! Come up to the veranda and sit down while I explain.”

“But are you a mason?”

“No,” I said. “I’m a pterodactyl—and I can prove it.”

When she was sitting in one of my porch chairs, which I placed in the middle of the veranda floor, I excused myself and got the bucket and basket which John Talkso had left behind after departing on the previous afternoon.

“Now shut your eyes, Miss Balliol! Promise not to peep.”

“Cross my heart,” she returned gaily.

I slowly crossed the floor to her, then stepped away a pace or two.

“Open!”

Her wondering gaze fell upon the concrete floor. From the door of the living room to the side of her chair extended a line of fresh, muddy pterodactyl tracks! She almost jumped, then her blue eyes went to me.

“Exhibit A!” I said, holding up the bucket of muddy water, and in the other hand the plaster-of-Paris cast which had made the tracks. “John Talkso was here yesterday. So was the sheriff. Talkso left these things behind—and he’s not coming back.”

Her face sobered.

“What do you mean, Mr. Desmond?”

“Well,” I explained, “this Talkso was an educated chap. He knew what a pterodactyl was, you see—and he knew that other men knew! Then he left some other things. Typical of them was a set of twelve pieces of round, crimson glass; these, placed in the eyes of those skulls, made a fine crimson effect when seen from the lake. You get the idea?”

Her eyes widened.

“Talkso? That man? But what about my brother—”

“I’m coming to that. Between the sheriff and Talkso, we got the whole thing straightened out yesterday afternoon.”

After telling her something of what had happened, I explained.

“Your brother, Miss Balliol, had peculiar notions of what to do with Indian relics. In building this house, he uncovered the so-called graves of the former chiefs of the Indian tribe which inhabited this valley—and which still inhabit it in places. Your brother used the skulls for decoration, and once set in that concrete, the skulls could not be removed without destroying the foundation wall of the house. You see?”

She nodded, watching me with eager absorption.

“Well,” I pursued, “this John Talkso found out about it. He came after your brother in a rage and there was a fight on the spot, in which Talkso got worsted. Then he set to work to drive your brother off.

“He invented some very clever stage stuff, such as the pterodactyl tracks and the red glass in the skull-sockets; he also had some other tricks in his basket, and all of them clever. He had managed to make everyone believe that this house was haunted. He had once or twice attempted your brother’s life—”

“But why?” broke in the girl, astounded. “Whatever made the man act so? Was he mad?”

“Not a bit of it! He was sane. He was also well educated. But—mark this—he was not a white man; he was a halfbreed Indian, and he was the last of the Indian chiefs in this particular valley. He had all the Indian’s sense of outrage at seeing the skulls of his forefathers ornamenting this house. So, naturally, he tried to drive out the desecraters—your brother and me.

“He did not go in for murder in cold blood. Yesterday he merely entered the room behind you and gave you a shove, for example. In general, he contented himself with such things. But when I met him at McGray’s Tavern and beat him up, he lost his head. He hiked over another road from McGray’s, a shorter road east of the river, and got here ahead of me. But the sheriff and another man were hunting, and they saw Talkso deliberately ambush my car. It was assault with intent to kill, right enough, and it meant the coop for Mr. Talkso.”

“But that wall you were building!” exclaimed Martha Balliol.

“That’s the sheriff’s idea; our sheriff is a bright man,” I returned laughing. “The skulls, you note, are now buried completely, yet the foundation of the house is not damaged. Thus the feelings of John Talkso have been smoothed over, particularly as he faced the penitentiary if they were not smoothed over! He and his family are rich ranchers across the lake, and beyond having him bonded to keep the peace, I’ll not punish him further.”

“Then you think—”

“Sure! Everything’s all right!”

A LITTLE LATER that day, Martha Balliol was bidding me farewell. There was nothing to keep her here further, she said; at least, she knew of nothing. Nor did I, unhappily. She would go back East and take up the broken threads again.

“But,” I proffered, “will you not let me take you as far as Lakeport?”

“It will be very kind, Mr. Desmond. Of course!”

“It’s a promise?” I anxiously inquired. “Word of honor?”

“Eh?” The blue eyes inspected me with surprise. “Why, of course it is!”

“Good!” I lighted my pipe and puffed contentedly. “To tell the truth, the car is useless—I failed to fix my tires efficiently. There’s no gas to run the launch on; I forgot to fill up when we left Lakeport, I was so excited over your arrival! Naturally, we do not want to walk; so, Miss Balliol, we must go by canoe.”

“By canoe?” she echoed. “Why—Lakeport is miles and miles away! And I can’t paddle a stroke. We’d never get there!”

“Well?” I said inquiringly.

She met my eyes. Slowly a rosy glow crept into her cheeks; then she turned—and passed toward the canoe.

End

Table of Contents

- 1: Bob Bowen Comes to Town (novelette)
- 2: The Blood of Kings
- 3: On the Very Threshold
- 4: Mormon Valley (Novelette)
- 5: The House of Skulls