The Chinaman looked at the mustangs, and confidence came to him. So far as he had observed, what Jake Bradley said was strictly true. They certainly did seem remarkably tame.

With a little more persuasion he was induced to mount, Ben assisting him to get into position, and the reins were put into his hands.

The mustang began to move off at a regular pace, very favorable to an inexperienced rider, and a bland and child-like smile of content overspread the face of the Chinaman.

"You see, Ki Sing," said Bradley, who walked alongside, "it's nothing to ride. You thought you couldn't ride, yet you are pacing it off like a veteran."

"Me likee lide," observed Ki Sing, with a pleased smile.

"Just so: I thought you would.—Ben, doesn't Ki Sing ride well?"

"Splendidly!" said Ben, contemplating with amusement the Mongolian horseman.

Certainly, Ki Sing in his Chinese garb, as he gingerly held the reins, with his bland, smiling face, did look rather queer.

But I am sorry to say that the poor Chinaman's pleasure and contentment were destined to be of short duration. Bradley and Ben were eager for the amusement they promised themselves when they planned this practical joke at the expense of their Asiatic friend.

Winking at Ben, Bradley said, "You don't go fast enough, Ki Sing."

As he spoke he brought down a stick which he had in his hand with emphasis on the flanks of the mustang. The effect was magical. The tame animal immediately started off at great speed, arching his neck and shaking his head, while the poor Chinaman, his bland smile succeeded by a look of extreme terror, was bounced up and down in the most unceremonious fashion, and would have been thrown off quickly but for the Mexican saddle, which is a securer seat than that used at the East.

He uttered a howl of anguish, while his almond eyes seemed starting out of their sockets as his steed dashed along the road.

Though Ben sympathized with the terrified Chinaman, he knew there was little or no danger, and he threw himself on the ground and gave way to a paroxysm of laughter.

Finally the horse slackened his pace, and Ki Sing lost no time in sliding to the ground.

"How do you like it, Ki Sing?" asked Bradley, trying to keep his face straight.

"No likee lide," answered Mr. Chinaman. "Horsee 'most kill Ki Sing."

"You rode splendidly, Ki Sing," said Ben, laughing. "You made him go fast."

"No likee go fast," said Ki Sing, inspecting his limbs to see that none were broken.

The poor Chinaman's limbs were sore for a day or two, and he could never be induced to mount one of the mustangs again.

It was his first and last ride.



CHAPTER XIV.

GOLDEN GULCH HOTEL.

The party were able to cover a greater distance on the second day than on the first, being now among the foot-hills, where travelling was attended with less difficulty.

In the mountain-cabin they had been solitary. Their only visitors had been Bill Mosely and his friend Tom Hadley, and such visitors they were glad to dispense with. Now, however, it was different. Here and there they found a little mining-settlement with its quota of rough, bearded men clad in strange fashion. Yet some of these men had filled responsible and prominent positions in the East. One of the most brigandish-looking miners had been a clergyman in Western New York, who had been compelled by bronchial troubles to give up his parish, and, being poor, had wandered to the California mines in the hope of gathering a competence for the support of his family.

"It seems good to see people again," said Ben, whose temperament was social. "I felt like Robinson Crusoe on his desert island when I was up on the mountain."

"Yes," answered Bradley, "I like to see people myself when they're of the right sort. When they're like Bill Mosely I'd rather be alone."

"I agree with you there," said Ben. "Poor company is worse than none."

Besides the mining-settlements there were little knots of miners at work here and there, who generally gave the travellers a cordial welcome, and often invited them to stay and join them.

"No," said Bradley, "we're in a hurry to get to 'Frisco."

"Oh, you've made your pile, then?" was generally answered. "What luck have you had?"

"Our pile is a small one," Bradley was wont to reply, "but we've got business in 'Frisco. Leastwise, he has," pointing to Richard Dewey, who headed the procession.

"Will you come back to the mines?"

"I shall, for one," said Bradley. "I ain't rich enough to retire yet, and I don't expect to be for half a dozen years yet."

"Will the boy come back?"

"Yes," answered Ben. "I'm in the same situation as my friend, Mr. Bradley. I haven't my fortune yet."

"You'd better stay with us, boy. We'll do the right thing by you."

Ben shook his head and declined with thanks. He did not want to forsake his present companions. Besides, he had been commissioned by Florence Douglas to find Richard Dewey, and he wanted to execute that commission thoroughly. He wanted to see the two united, and then he would be content to return to the rough life of the mining-camp.

It is easy to understand why Ben should have received so many friendly invitations. A boy was a rarity in California at that time—at any rate, in the mining-districts. There were plenty of young men and men of middle age, but among the adventurous immigrants were to be found few boys of sixteen, the age of our hero. The sight of his fresh young face and boyish figure recalled to many miners the sons whom they had left behind them, and helped to make more vivid the picture of home which their imaginations often conjured up, and they would have liked to have Ben join their company. But, as I have said, Ben had his reasons for declining all invitations at present, though he had every reason to anticipate good treatment.

Toward the close of the second day the little party reached a small mining-settlement containing probably about fifty miners.

It was known as Golden Gulch, and it even boasted a small hotel, with a board sign, on which had been scrawled in charcoal—

GOLDEN GULCH HOTEL.

KEPT BY JIM BROWN.

"I believe we are getting into the domain of civilization," said Richard Dewey. "Actually, here is a hotel. If Mr. Brown is not too exorbitant in his prices, we had better put up here for the night."

"It doesn't look like an expensive hotel," said Ben, looking at the rough shanty which the proprietor had dignified by the appellation of "hotel."

It was roughly put together, had but one story, was unpainted, and was altogether hardly equal, architecturally, to some of the huts which are to be found among the rocks at the upper end of Manhattan Island.

Such was Jim Brown's "Golden Gulch Hotel." Such as it was, however, it looked attractive to our pilgrims, who for so long had been compelled to be their own cooks and servants.

They found, upon inquiry, that Jim Brown's terms for supper, lodging, and breakfast were five dollars a day, or as nearly as that sum could be reached in gold-dust. It was considerably higher than the prices then asked at the best hotels in New York and Philadelphia; but high prices prevailed in California, and no one scrupled to pay them.

The party decided to remain, and the landlord set to work to prepare them a supper as good as the limited resources of the Golden Gulch Hotel would allow. Still, the fare was better and more varied than our travellers had been accustomed to for a long time, and they enjoyed it.

Ki Sing sat down to the table with them. This was opposed at first by Jim Brown, the landlord, who regarded Chinamen as scarcely above the level of his mules.

"You don't mean to say you want that heathen to sit down at the table with you?" he remonstrated.

"Yes, I do," said Richard Dewey.

"I'd sooner be kicked by a mule than let any yaller heathen sit next to me," remarked Jim Brown, whose education and refinement made him sensitive to such social contamination.

Richard Dewey smiled. "Of course you can choose for yourself," he said. "Ki Sing is a friend of mine, though he is acting as my servant, and I want him to have equal privileges."

Jim Brown remarked that of course Dewey could choose his own company, though he intimated that he thought his taste might be improved.

"Me eatee aftelward," said Ki Sing when he perceived that his presence at the table was the subject of controversy, but he was overruled by Richard Dewey, who possessed a large share of independence, and would not allow himself to be controlled or influenced by the prejudices of others.

This may not seem a very important matter, but it aroused a certain hostility on the part of the landlord, which arrayed him against Dewey and his companions at a critical time.

Entirely unconscious of the storm that was soon to gather about them, the little party did good justice to the supper which Mr. Brown set before them.

"How would it seem, Jake, to have supper like this every night?" remarked Ben.

"It would make me feel like a prince," answered Jake Bradley.

"It is no better than I used to get at Uncle Job's, and yet he was a poor man. How he would stare if he knew I was paying five dollars a day for no better fare than he gave me!" replied our hero.

"That's true, Ben; but maybe it's easier to get the five dollars here than it would have been to scrape together fifty cents at home."

"You're right there, Jake. Fifty cents was a pretty big sum to me a year ago. I don't believe Uncle Job himself averages over a dollar and a quarter a day, and he has a family to support. If I only do well here, I'll make him comfortable in his old age."

"I guess you'll have the chance, Ben. You're the boy to succeed. You're smart, and you're willin' to work, and them's what leads to success out here."

"Thank you, Jake. I will try to deserve your favorable opinion."

As Ben finished these words, there was a confused noise outside, the hoarse murmur as of angry men, and a minute later Jim Brown the landlord entered the room, his face dark and threatening.

"Strangers," said he, "I reckoned there was something wrong about you when you let that yaller heathen sit down with you. Now, I know it. You ain't square, respectable men; you're hoss-thieves!"



CHAPTER XV.

BILL MOSELY REAPPEARS.

It will be necessary to go back a little in order to explain how so extraordinary a charge came to be made against the party in which we are interested.

Bill Mosely and Tom Hadley did not become reconciled to the loss of their stolen horses. They found it much less agreeable to use their own legs than the legs of the two mustangs which had borne them so comfortably over the hills. They cursed the fate which had led to their meeting with Ki Sing, and the poor Chinaman would have fared worse at their hands had they anticipated the trouble which he indirectly brought them.

Bill Mosely was naturally lazy; any sort of work he considered beneath him, and he desired to avoid all possible trouble in the lawless and vagabond life which he had chosen. He took it worse, indeed, than his companion, who was neither so shiftless nor so lazy as he.

During the few days which had elapsed since they were glad to leave the mountain-cabin they had averaged less than ten miles' daily travel. They had money enough to purchase animals to replace those which had been taken from them, but had not found any one who was willing to sell for a reasonable price, and Mosely, though he came easily by his money, was far from lavish in the spending of it.

It chanced that an hour after the arrival of Richard Dewey and his party at the Golden Gulch Hotel, Mosely and his companion, dusty and tired, approached the small mining-settlement, of which the hotel was the principal building.

They had had nothing to eat since morning, and both of them felt hungry, not to say ravenous.

"Thank Heaven, Tom, there's a mining-town!" ejaculated Mosely, with an expression of devotion not usual to him. "Now we can get something to eat, and I, for my part, feel as empty as a drum. It's hard travelling on an empty stomach."

"I should say so," remarked Mr. Hadley, with his usual formula. It must be admitted, however, that in the present instance he was entirely sincere, and fully meant what he said.

"There's a hotel," said Tom Hadley, a minute later, venturing on an original observation.

"So there is; what is the name?" inquired Mosely, who was not as far-sighted as his companion.

"The Golden Gulch Hotel," answered Hadley, shading his eyes and reading from a distance of fifty rods the pretentious sign of the little inn.

"I suppose they'll charge a fortune for a supper," said Mosely, whose economical spirit was troubled by the exorbitant prices then prevalent in California, "but we must have it at any cost."

"I should say so," assented Tom Hadley, cordially.

"You always have a good appetite of your own," observed Mosely, not without sarcasm, which, however, Tom Hadley was too obtuse to comprehend.

"I should say so," returned Tom complacently, as if he had received a compliment.

"No doubt you'll get your money's worth, no matter how much we pay for supper."

Tom Hadley himself was of this opinion, and so expressed himself.

They had already caught sight of two mustangs which were browsing near the Golden Gulch Hotel, and the sight of these useful animals excited the envy and longing of Bill Mosely.

"Do you see them mustangs, Tom?" he inquired.

"I should say so."

"I wish we had them."

"Couldn't we take them?" suggested Hadley, his face brightening at the thought of this easy mode of acquiring what they so much needed.

"Are you mad, Tom Hadley?" returned Bill Mosely, shrugging his shoulders. "Are you anxious to die?"

"I should say—not."

"Then you'd better not think of carrying off them horses. Why, we'd have the whole pack of miners after us, and we'd die in our boots before twenty-four hours had passed."

On the whole, this prospect did not appear to be of an encouraging character, and Tom Hadley quietly dropped the plan.

"Perhaps we can buy them," suggested Mosely by way of amendment. "I've got tired of tramping over these hills on foot. After we've got some supper we'll inquire who they belong to."

Up to this point neither Mosely nor his companion suspected that the mustangs which they desired to purchase had once been in their possession. That discovery was to come later.

Before reaching the Golden Gulch Hotel they encountered the landlord, already introduced as Jim Brown.

Mr. Brown scanned the new-comers with an eye to business. Being strangers, he naturally looked upon them as possible customers, and was disposed from motives of policy to cultivate their acquaintance.

"Evenin', strangers," he remarked, as affably as a rather gruff voice and manner would permit.

"Good-evening," said Bill Mosely, socially. "What might be the name of this settlement?"

"You kin see the name on that sign yonder, stranger, ef your eyes are strong enough."

"Golden Gulch?"

"I reckon."

"It ought to be a good place, from the name."

"It's middlin' good. Where might you be from?"

"We're prospectin' a little," answered Bill Mosely vaguely; for there had been circumstances in his California career that made it impolitic to be too definite in his statements.

"Where are you bound?" continued the landlord, with that licensed curiosity which no one ventured to object to in California.

"That depends upon circumstances, my friend," said Bill Mosely, guardedly. "We may go to 'Frisco, and then again we may not. To-night we propose to remain here in Golden Gulch. Is that a comfortable hotel?"

"Well, stranger, seein' I keep it myself, it mightn't be exactly the thing for me to say much about it; but I reckon you won't complain of it if you stop there."

"I'm glad to meet you," said Bill Mosely, grasping the landlord's hand fervently. "I don't need to ask any more about it, seein' you're the landlord. You look like a man that can keep a hotel—eh, Tom?"

"I should say so," returned Tom Hadley, making the answer that was expected of him.

"You're a gentleman!" said Jim Brown, on whom this flattery had its effect. "Just come along with me and I'll see that you are treated as such."

"What are your terms, say, for supper and lodgin', landlord?" asked Bill, with commendable caution.

"Five dollars," answered Brown.

Bill Mosely's jaw fell. He had hoped it would be less.

"And for supper alone?" he asked.

"Two dollars."

"We'll only take supper," said Mosely.

"Just as you say."

"We're so used to campin' out that we couldn't breathe in-doors—eh, Tom?"

"I should say so, Bill."

"Suit yourselves, strangers. I reckon you'll want breakfast in the mornin'."

"As likely as not." Then, turning his attention to the mustangs: "Are them mustangs yours, landlord?"

"No; they belong to a party that's stoppin' with me."

"Will they sell?"

"I reckon not. There's a lame man in the party, and he can't walk much."

"A lame man? Who is with him?" asked Bill Mosely, with a sudden suspicion of the truth.

"Well, there's another man and a boy and a heathen Chinee."

"Tom," said Bill Mosely, in excitement, "it's the party we left on the mountain."

"I should say so, Bill."

"Do you know them, strangers?"

"Know them?" ejaculated Bill Mosely, who instantly formed a plan which would gratify his love of vengeance and secure him the coveted horses at one and the same time—"I reckon I know them only too well. They stole those mustangs from me and my friend a week ago. I thought them animals looked natural."

"Hoss-thieves!" said the landlord. "Well, I surmised there was something wrong about them when they let that yaller heathen set down to the table with them."



CHAPTER XVI.

A TRAVESTY OF JUSTICE.

It was speedily noised about in the mining-camp that a party of horse-thieves had had the audacity to visit the settlement, and were even now guests of the Golden Gulch Hotel.

Now, in the eyes of a miner a horse-thief was as bad as a murderer. He was considered rather worse than an ordinary thief, since the character of his theft gave him better facilities for getting away with his plunder. He was looked upon by all as a common and dangerous enemy, on whom any community was justified in visiting the most condign punishment.

Bill Mosely knew very well the feeling he would rouse against the men whom he hated, and, having started the movement, waited complacently for the expected results to follow.

Jim Brown was by no means slow in spreading the alarm. True, these men were his guests, and it might be considered that it was against his interests to denounce them, but he knew his claim for entertainment would be allowed him out of the funds found in possession of the party, with probably a liberal addition as a compensation for revealing their real character.

Horse-thieves! No sooner did the news spread than the miners, most of whom were through work for the day, began to make their way to the neighborhood of the hotel.

There hadn't been any excitement at Golden Gulch for some time, and this promised a first-class sensation.

"Hang 'em up! That's what I say," suggested Brown the landlord.

"Where's the men that call 'em thieves?" asked one of the miners, a middle-aged man, who was sober and slow-spoken, and did not look like a man to be easily carried away by a storm of prejudice or a wave of excitement.

"Here they be," said Brown, pointing to Bill Mosely and Tom Hadley, who were speedily surrounded by an excited crowd.

"What have you say?" asked the first speaker of Mosely.

Bill Mosely repeated his story glibly. It was to this effect: They had met the Chinaman, who induced them to accompany him to the cabin where his master lay sick. From motives of compassion they assented. When they reached the cabin they were set upon by the combined party, their horses were taken from them, they were tied to trees, where they were kept in great pain all night, and in the morning stripped of the greater part of their money and sent adrift.

It will be seen that the story did not entirely deviate from fact, and was very artfully framed to excite sympathy for the narrator and indignation against the perpetrators of the supposed outrage. Tom Hadley, who had not the prolific imagination of his comrade, listened in open-mouthed wonder to the fanciful tale, but did not offer to corroborate it in his usual manner.

The tale was so glibly told that it carried conviction to the minds of most of those present, and a storm of indignation arose.

"Let's have 'em out! let's hang 'em up!" exclaimed one impetuous miner.

Others echoed the cry, and the company of miners in stern phalanx marched to the hotel, where, unconscious of the impending peril, our friends were resting after the day's fatigue.

We have already described the manner in which Jim Brown burst in upon them with the startling charge that they were horse-thieves.

Of course all were startled except Ki Sing, who did not fully comprehend the situation.

Richard Dewey was the first to speak. "What do you mean," he said, sternly, "by this preposterous charge?"

"You'll find out soon enough," said the landlord, nodding significantly. "Jest you file out of that door pretty quick. There's some of us want to see you."

"What does all this mean?" asked Dewey, turning to Jake Bradley.

"I don't know," answered Bradley. "It looks like a conspiracy."

The party filed out, and were confronted by some thirty or forty black-bearded, stern-faced men, who had tried and condemned them in advance of their appearance.

Richard Dewey glanced at the faces before him, and his spirit sank within him. He had been present at a similar scene before—a scene which had terminated in a tragedy—and he knew how swift and relentless those men could be. Who could have made such a charge he did not yet know, but, innocent as he and his companions were, he knew that their word would not be taken, and the mistake might lead to death. But he was not a man to quail or blanch.

"Hoss-thieves! string 'em up!" was shouted from more than one throat.

Richard Dewey calmly surveyed the angry throng. "Gentlemen," he said, "I am no more a horse-thief than any one of you."

There was a buzz of indignation, as if he had confessed his guilt and implicated them in it.

"I demand to see and face my accusers," he said boldly. "What man has dared to charge me and my friends with the mean and contemptible crime of stealing horses?"

Jake Bradley had been looking about him too. Over the heads of the men, who stood before them drawn up in a semicircle, he saw what had escaped the notice of Richard Dewey, the faces and figures of Bill Mosely and Tom Hadley.

"Dick," said he, suddenly, "I see it all. Look yonder! There are them two mean skunks, Bill Mosely and Tom Hadley. It's they who have been bringin' this false slander ag'in us."

Richard Dewey and Ben immediately looked in the direction indicated.

Bill Mosely eyed them with a glance of evil and exulting triumph, as much as to say, "It's my turn now; I am having my revenge."

But Jim Brown, who seemed to be acting as prosecuting attorney, had already summoned the two men to come forward and testify.

"Here's the men!" he said, exultingly. "Here's the men you robbed of their horses and tied to trees.—Isn't it so, stranger?"

Bill Mosely inclined his head in the affirmative, and Tom Hadley, being also asked, answered, but rather faintly, "I should say so."

Lying did not come as natural to him as to Bill.

Richard Dewey laughed scornfully.

"Are those the men," he asked, "who charge us with stealing their horses?"

"In course they do."

"Then," burst forth Jake Bradley, impetuously, "of all the impudent and lyin' scoundrels I ever met, they'll carry off the prize."

"Of course you deny it," said Bill Mosely, brazenly persisting in his falsehood. "A man that'll steal will lie. Perhaps you will charge us with stealin' the horses next."

"That's just what I do," said Bradley, in an excited tone. "You're not only horse-thieves, but you'll take gold-dust an' anything else you can lay your hands on."

"Gentlemen," said Bill Mosely, shrugging his shoulders, "you see how he is tryin' to fasten his own guilt on me and my innocent pard here. It isn't enough that he stole our horses and forced us to foot it over them rough hills, but now he wants to steal away our reputation for honor and honesty. He thinks you're easy to be imposed on, but I know better. You won't see two innocent men lied about and charged with disgraceful crimes?"

"I admire that fellow's cheek," said Bradley in an undertone to Richard Dewey, but he soon found that the consequences were likely to be disastrous to him and his party. The crowd were getting impatient, and readily seconded the words of Jim Brown when he followed up Bill Mosely's speech by a suggestion that they proceed at once to vindicate justice by a summary execution.

They rushed forward and seized upon our four friends, Ki Sing included, and hurried them off to a cluster of tall trees some twenty rods away.



CHAPTER XVII.

LYNCH LAW.

Nothing is so unreasoning as a crowd under excitement. The miners were inflamed with fierce anger against men of whom they knew nothing, except that they were accused of theft by two other men, of whom also they knew nothing. Whether the charge was true or false they did not stop to inquire. Apparently, they did not care. They only wanted revenge, and that stern and immediate.

The moderate speaker, already referred to, tried to turn the tide by an appeal for delay. "Wait till morning," he said. "This charge may not be true. Let us not commit an injustice."

But his appeal was drowned in the cries of the excited crowd, "Hang the horse-thieves! string 'em up."

Each of the four victims was dragged by a force which he couldn't resist to the place of execution.

Richard Dewey was pale, but his expression was stern and contemptuous, as if he regarded the party of miners as fools or lunatics.

"Was this to be the end?" he asked himself. "Just as the prospect of happiness was opening before him, just as he was to be reunited to the object of his affection, was he to fall a victim to the fury of a mob?"

Jake Bradley perhaps took the matter more philosophically than either of the other three. He had less to live for, and his attachment to life was not therefore so strong. Still, to be hanged as a thief was not a pleasant way to leave life, and that was what he thought of most. Again, his sympathy was excited in behalf of the boy Ben, whom he had come to love as if he were his own son. He could not bear to think of the boy's young life being extinguished in so shocking a manner.

"This is rough, Ben," he managed to say as the two, side by side, were hurried along by the vindictive crowd.

Ben's face was pale and his heart was full of sorrow and awe with the prospect of a shameful death rising before him. Life was sweet to him, and it seemed hard to lose it.

"Yes it is," answered Ben, faltering. "Can't something be done?"

Jake Bradley shook his head mournfully. "I am afraid not," he said. "I'd like to shoot one of those lyin' scoundrels" (referring to Bill Mosely and his companion) "before I am swung off. To think their word should cost us our lives! It's a burnin' shame!"

Ki Sing looked the image of terror as he too was forced forward by a couple of strong miners. His feet refused to do their office, and he was literally dragged forward, his feet trailing along the ground. He was indeed a ludicrous figure, if anything connected with such a tragedy can be considered ludicrous. Probably it was not so much death that Ki Sing feared, for with his race life is held cheap, but Chinamen shrink from violence, particularly that of a brutal character. They are ready with their knives, but other violence is not common among them.

Bill Mosely and Tom Hadley followed in the rear of the crowd. They would have liked to improve the time by stealing away with the mustangs which they coveted, but even in this hour of public excitement they knew it would not be safe, and the act might arouse suspicion.

While Mosely felt gratified that the men he hated were likely to be put out of the way, there was in his heart a sensation of fear, and he involuntarily shuddered when he reflected that if justice were done he would he in the place of these men who were about to suffer a shameful death. Moreover, he knew that some day it were far from improbable that he himself would be figuring in a similar scene as a chief actor, or rather chief victim. So, though he exulted, he also trembled.

Meanwhile the place of execution had been reached. Then it was discovered that one important accessory to the contemplated tragedy was lacking—a rope. So one of the party was sent to the hotel for a rope, being instructed by Jim Brown where to find it.

It seemed the last chance for an appeal, and, hopeless as it seemed, Richard Dewey resolved to improve it. "Gentlemen," he said in a solemn tone, "I call God to witness that you are about to put to death four innocent men."

"Enough of that!" said Jim Brown, roughly, "We don't want to hear any more of your talk."

But Dewey did not stop. "You have condemned us," he proceeded, "on the testimony of two as arrant scoundrels as can be found in California;" and he pointed scornfully at Bill Mosely and his partner.

"Are you goin' to let him insult us?" asked Mosely in the tone of a wronged man.

"That don't go down, stranger," said Jim Brown. "We know you're guilty, and that's enough."

"You know it? How do you know it?" retorted Dewey. "What proof is there except the word of two thieves and liars who deserve the fate which you are preparing for us?"

"Hang 'em up!" shouted somebody; and the cry was taken up by the rest.

"If you won't believe me," continued Dewey, "I want to make one appeal—to ask one last favor. Spare the life of that innocent boy, who certainly has done no evil. If there are any fathers present I ask, Have you the heart to take away the life of a child just entering upon life and its enjoyments?"

He had touched the chord in the hearts of more than one.

"That's so!" cried the speaker who had tried to stem the popular excitement. "It would be a crime and a disgrace, and I'll shoot the man that puts the rope 'round the boy's neck."

"You're right," cried three others, who themselves had left children in their distant homes. "The boy's life must be saved."

The two men who held Ben in their grasp released him, and our young hero found himself free. There was a great rush of joy to his heart as he saw the shadow of death lifted from him, but he was not satisfied that his life alone should be spared. He resolved to make an appeal in turn. "Gentlemen," he said, "I am only a boy, but I want to speak a few words, and those words shall be true."

Ben had been a good speaker at school, and he had unconsciously assumed the attitude with which he commenced declaiming upon the school-rostrum.

"Hear the boy!" shouted several; and there was a general silence. It was a new thing to be addressed by a boy, and there was a feeling of curiosity as to what he would say.

"I want to say this," continued Ben—"that what Mr. Dewey has said is strictly true. Not one of us is guilty of the crime that has been charged upon us. The men who have testified against us are thieves, and robbed us of these very horses, which we finally recovered from them. May I tell you how it all happened?"

Partly from curiosity, the permission was given, and Ben, in plain, simple language, told the story of how they had received Mosely and Hadley hospitably, and awoke in the morning to find that they had stolen their horses. He also described the manner in which later they tried to rob Dewey when confined to his bed by sickness. His words were frank and sincere, and bore the impress of truth. Evidently a sentiment was being created favorable to the prisoners, and Bill Mosely saw it and trembled.

"Let us go," he whispered to Hadley.

"If you wish to know whether I speak the truth," Ben concluded, "look in the faces of those two men who have accused us."

The terror in the face of Bill Mosely was plainly to be seen. Suddenly the minds of the fickle multitude veered round to the two accusers, and shouts arose: "The boy's right! Hang the thieves!"

Then Bill Mosely did perhaps the most unwise thing possible. His courage fairly broke down, and he started to run. Immediately a dozen men were on his track. He was brought back, moaning and begging for mercy, but the crowd was in no merciful mood. Victims they demanded, and when the rope was brought the two wretched men were summarily suspended to the branches of two neighboring trees.

They had fallen into the pit which they had prepared for others.

As for Ben, he became the hero of the hour. The miners raised him on their shoulders and bore him aloft in triumph to the hotel from which he had so recently been dragged to execution.



CHAPTER XVIII.

AFTER THE EXECUTION.

While Ben rejoiced and lifted silent thanks to God for his narrow escape from a shameful death, he felt no satisfaction in the knowledge that the men who had basely conspired against them had suffered the like terrible fate. He averted his head in horror from the sight, and, innocent as he was of fault, he felt depressed to think that his words had resulted in bringing this punishment upon them.

I have said that he was the hero of the hour. Boys were scarce in California, and the hearts of the miners warmed to him on account of his youth and the memories it called up of their own children far away.

A self-appointed committee waited upon him and asked him to stay with them.

"We'll all help you along," they said. "We will make your share equal to that of the luckiest miner among us. You're true grit, and we respect you for it. What do you say?"

"What shall I do, Jake?" he asked of Bradley.

"It's a fair offer, Ben. Perhaps you'd best stay. I'd stay too, only I want to see Dick Dewey safe in 'Frisco. When he and his gal are j'ined I'll come back and try my luck here."

"I will do the same, Jake. I want to go to San Francisco and see the lady who was so kind to me. I sha'n't feel that I've done all my duty till I have seen her and Mr. Dewey united. Then I shall be ready to come back."

"Tell 'em so, Ben."

Ben gave this answer to those who had asked him to stay, thanking them gratefully for their kind offer. His answer gave general satisfaction.

Ben could hardly realize that these very men had been impatient to hang him only an hour before. He was thankful for this change in their sentiments, though he did not pretend to understand it.

Bradley and Dewey, knowing the fickleness of a mining-community, were a little apprehensive that their original suspicions might again be aroused, and that some among them might be led to think they had make a mistake, after all, and hung the wrong men. That would be serious, and perhaps dangerous to them. They reflected that only Ben's speech had turned the tide of sentiment, and the two thieves had been hung on the unsupported word of a boy. Might not this occur to some of the company in some of their cooler moments? They decided in a secret conference that it would be best for them to get away early the next morning—that is, as early as practicable—before any change had come over the minds of their new friends.

Later, however, they were relieved from their momentary apprehension.

Two men who had been out hunting did not return to the camp till an hour after the execution had taken place.

"What's happened? they asked.

"We've only been hangin' a couple of hoss-thieves," was answered coolly by one of their comrades. "We came near hangin' the wrong men, but we found out our mistake."

The two hunters went to view the bodies of the malefactors, who were still suspended from the extemporized gallows.

"I know them men," said one with sudden recognition.

"What do you know about them? Did you ever meet them?"

"I reckon I did. They camped with me one night, and in the morning they were missing, and all my gold-dust too."

"Then it's true what the boy said? they're thieves, and no mistake?"

"You've made no mistake this time. You've hung the right men."

This fresh testimony was at once communicated to the miners, and received with satisfaction, as one or two had been a little in doubt as to whether the two men were really guilty. No one heard it with more pleasure than Dewey and Bradley, who felt now that they were completely exonerated.



CHAPTER XIX.

BEN WINS LAURELS AS A SINGER.

Our party had no further complaint to make of ill-treatment. During the remainder of the evening they were treated with distinguished consideration, and every effort was made to make their sojourn pleasant.

As the miners gathered round a blazing log-fire built out of doors, which the cool air of evening made welcome, it was proposed that those who had any vocal gifts should exert them for the benefit of the company.

Three or four of those present had good voices, and sang such songs as they knew.

Finally, one of the miners turned to Bradley. "Can't you sing us something, friend?" he asked.

"You don't know what you're asking," said Bradley. "My voice sounds like a rusty saw. If you enjoy the howlin' of wolves, mayhap you might like my singin'."

"I reckon you're excused," said the questioner.

"My friend Dick Dewey will favor you, perhaps. I never heard him sing, but I reckon he might if he tried."

"Won't you sing?" was asked of Dewey.

Richard Dewey would have preferred to remain silent, but his life had been spared, and the men around him, though rough in manner, seemed to mean kindly. He conquered his reluctance, therefore, and sang a couple of ballads in a clear, musical voice with good effect.

"Now it's the boy's turn," said one.

Ben, was in fact, a good singer. He had attended a country singing-school for two terms, and he was gifted with a strong and melodious voice. Bradley had expected that he would decline bashfully, but Ben had a fair share of self-possession, and felt there was no good reason to decline.

"I don't know many songs," he said, "but I am ready to do my share."

The first song which occurred to him was "Annie Laurie," and he sang it through with taste and effect. As his sweet, boyish notes fell on the ears of the crowd they listened as if spellbound, and at the end gave him a round of applause.

I don't wish to represent that Ben was a remarkable singer. His knowledge of music was only moderate, but his voice was unusually strong and sweet, and his audience were not disposed to be critical.

He sang one song after another, until at last he declared that he was tired and would sing but one more. "What shall it be?" he asked.

"'Sweet Home,'" suggested one; and the rest took it up in chorus.

That is a song that appeals to the heart at all times and in all places, but it may well be understood that among the California mountains, before an audience every man of whom was far from home, it would have a peculiar and striking effect. The singer, too, as he sang, had his thoughts carried back to the home three thousand miles away where lived all who were near and dear to him, and the thought lent new tenderness and pathos to his song.

Tears came to the eyes of more than one rough miner as he listened to the sweet strains, and there were few in whom home-memories were not excited.

There was a moment's hush, and then a great roar of applause. Ben had made a popular success of which a prima donna might have been proud.

One enthusiastic listener wanted to take up a contribution for the singer, but Ben steadily declined it. "I am glad if I have given any one pleasure," he said, "but I can't take money for that."

"Ben," said Jake Bradley, when the crowd had dispersed, "you've made two ten-strikes to-day. You've carried off all the honors, both as an orator and a singer."

"You saved all our lives by that speech of yours, Ben," said Dewey. "We will not soon forget that."

"It was your plea for me that give me the chance, Mr. Dewey," said Ben. "I owe my life, first of all to you."

"That does not affect my obligation to you. If I am ever in a situation to befriend you, you may count with all confidence upon Richard Dewey."

"Thank you, Mr. Dewey. I would sooner apply to you than any man I know—except Bradley," he added, noticing that his faithful comrade seemed disturbed by what he said.

Jake Bradley brightened up and regarded Ben with a look of affection. He had come to feel deeply attached to the boy who had shared his dangers and privations, and in all proved himself a loyal friend.

The next morning the three friends set out for San Francisco, carrying with them the hearty good wishes of the whole mining-settlement.

"You have promised to come back?" said more than one.

"Yes," said Bradley; "we'll come back if we ain't prevented, and I reckon we won't be unless we get hanged for hoss-stealin' somewhere on the road."

This sally called forth a hearty laugh from the miners, who appreciated the joke.

"It's all very well for you to laugh," said Bradley, shaking his head, "but I don't want to come any nearer hangin' than I was last night."

"All's well that ends well," said one of the miners lightly.

Neither Ben nor Richard Dewey could speak or think so lightly of the narrow escape they had had from a shameful death, and though they smiled, as was expected by the crowd, it was a grave smile, with no mirth in it.

"You'll come back too, boy?" was said to Ben.

"Yes, I expect to."

"You won't be sorry for it.—Boys, let us stake out two claims for the boy and his friend, and when they come back we'll help them work them for a while."

"Agreed! agreed!" said all.

So with hearty manifestations of good-will the three friends rode on their way.

"It's strange," observed Dewey, thoughtfully, "how this wild and lonely life effects the character. Some of these men who were so near hanging us on the unsupported accusation of two men of whom they knew nothing were good, law-abiding citizens at home. There they would not have dreamed of such summary proceedings."

"That's where it comes in," said Bradley. "It ain't here as it is there. There's no time here to wait for courts and trials."

"So you too are in favor of Judge Lynch?"

"Judge Lynch didn't make any mistake when he swung off them two rascals, Hadley and Bill Mosely."

"We might have been in their places, Jake," said Ben.

"That would have been a pretty bad mistake," said Bradley, shrugging his shoulders.



CHAPTER XX.

A LITTLE RETROSPECT.

It will be remembered that a merchant in Albany, Mr. John Campbell, was the guardian of Miss Florence Douglas, whom our hero, Ben, had escorted from New York to San Francisco.

The disappearance of his ward was exceedingly annoying, since it interfered with plans which he had very much at heart. He had an only son, Orton Campbell, now a young man of twenty-eight. He was young in years only, being a stiff, grave, wooden-faced man, who in his starched manners was a close copy of his father. Both father and son were excessively fond of money, and the large amount of the fortune of the young lady, who stood to the father in the relation of ward, had excited the covetousness of both. It was almost immediately arranged between father and son that she should marry the latter, either of her own free will or upon compulsion.

In pursuance of this agreement, Mr. Orton Campbell took advantage of the ward's residence in his father's family to press upon her attentions which clearly indicated his ultimate object.

Florence Douglas felt at first rather constrained to receive her guardian's son with politeness, and this, being misinterpreted, led to an avowal of love.

Orton Campbell made his proposal in a confident, matter-of-fact manner, as if it were merely a matter of form, and the answer must necessarily be favorable.

The young lady drew back in dignified surprise, hastily withdrawing the hand which he had seized. "I cannot understand, Mr. Campbell," she said, "what can have induced you to address me in this manner."

"I don't know why you should be surprised, Miss Douglas," returned Orton Campbell, offended.

"I have never given you any reason to suppose that I regarded you with favor."

"You have always seemed glad to see me, but perhaps that was only coquetry," said Orton, in a disagreeable manner.

"I certainly have never treated you with more than ordinary politeness, except, indeed, as my residence in your father's house has necessarily brought us nearer together."

"I don't think, Miss Douglas, you would find me a bad match," said the young man, condescending to drop his sneering tone and plead his cause. "I am already worth a good sum of money. I am my father's partner, and I shall become richer every year."

"It is not a matter of money with me, Mr. Campbell. When I marry, that will be a minor consideration."

"Of course, because you have a fortune of your own."

"Yes," said Florence, regarding him significantly, for she suspected that it was rather her fortune than herself that he desired, being no stranger to his love of money.

Perhaps he understood her, for he continued: "Of course I don't care for that, you know. I should offer myself to you if you had nothing."

This Florence Douglas thoroughly disbelieved. She answered coldly, "I thank you for the compliment you pay me, but I beg you to drop the subject."

"I will wait."

"You will wait in vain. I will look upon you as a friend if you desire it, but there can be nothing more than friendship between us."

Orton Campbell was very much chagrined, and reported the result of his suit to his father.

"I will speak to her myself," said the father. "As her guardian I ought to have some influence with her."

He soon ascertained, however, that Florence Douglas had a will of her own.

After a time he dropped persuasion and had recourse to threats. "Miss Douglas," he said, "I shall have to remind you that I am your guardian."

"I am quite aware of that fact, sir."

"And I shall remain in that position till you have completed your twenty-fifth year."

"That is quite true, sir."

"If you take any imprudent steps I shall think it necessary to interfere."

"What do you mean, sir?"

"I shall not allow you to fall a prey to any designing fortune-hunter."

"You need not fear, sir: I am in no danger."

"I am of a different opinion. I am quite aware that Richard Dewey has been seeking to ingratiate himself with you."

"Then," said his ward with dignity, "I have no hesitation in informing you that he has succeeded."

"Ha! I thought so. That is why you rejected my son."

"Excuse me, sir: you are quite mistaken. I should refuse your son if there were no other man in the world likely to marry me."

"And what is the matter with my son, Miss Douglas?" demanded her guardian, stiffly.

Florence might have answered that he was too much like his father, but she did not care to anger her guardian unnecessarily, and she simply answered, "It would be quite impossible for me to regard him as I wish to regard the man whom I hope to marry."

"But you could regard Richard Dewey in that way," sneered Campbell. "Well, Miss Douglas, I may as well tell you that he asked my permission yesterday to address you, and I ordered him out of my presence. Moreover, I have charged the servants not to admit him into the house."

"So you have insulted him, Mr. Campbell?" said his ward, her eyes flashing with resentment.

"It was the treatment which he deserved as an unscrupulous fortune-hunter."

"That word will better apply to your son," said the young lady, coldly. "I shall not remain here to have Mr. Dewey insulted."

"You will repent this, Miss Douglas," said her guardian, with an ugly frown. "Mark my words: I will keep you and Dewey apart. I have the power, and I will exert it."

Two weeks later Richard Dewey sailed for California in search of fortune, and five months later Miss Douglas, fearing that her guardian might imprison her in a mad-house, escaped from his residence, and, aided by Ben, also managed to reach California. For a time Mr. Campbell was entirely ignorant of her place of refuge. The next chapter will show how he discovered it.



CHAPTER XXI.

MR. CAMPBELL RECEIVES TIDINGS OF HIS WARD.

"It is strange we can't find Florence," said Orton Campbell to his father one morning some months after the young lady's departure. "Is there no clue?"

"The detective I have employed has failed to trace her."

"Has he no theory?"

"He suggests that she may have gone to Europe," said Mr. Campbell, "but I am not of that opinion."

"What do you think, then?"

"I suspect she has buried herself in some obscure country place under some assumed name, there to remain till she has attained her twenty-fifth year, when my guardianship ceases."

"When will that be?"

"Six months hence."

"It is very important, then, that we should find her before that time," said Orton Campbell, thoughtfully.

"That is true. After the time referred to my power ceases, and I shall be unable to assist you in your plans."

"Her fortune amounts to one hundred and fifty thousand dollars, does it not?"

"More than that. The interest has been accumulating till it amounts to nearer one hundred and seventy thousand dollars."

Orton Campbell's eyes sparkled with covetous greed.

"That is a stake worth playing for," he said. "With what I have of my own, it would make me independently rich."

"Just so, Orton," said his father.

"And nothing stands in the way but the caprice of a foolish girl! I declare, father, it is too exasperating. Suppose we try another detective? Your man can't be very sharp."

"I have no objection, Orton," said the merchant, "but as he would be employed in your interest, it is only fair that you should pay the expense incurred."

"I don't see that," said the son. "She is your ward, you know. It ought to come out of her property."

"The item may not be allowed. In that case I should be responsible," said John Campbell, cautiously.

"I'll tell you what I will do, father: if she is found and I marry her, I'll freely pay the whole expense."

"Suppose we find her, and she won't marry you: what then?" asked his father, keenly.

The son looked nonplussed, but finally consented in that case to defray the expense out of his private means—that is, if it could not be taken out of the young lady's fortune.

The matter having been satisfactorily adjusted, they were discussing the choice of a detective when a clerk came to the door of the private counting-room in which father and son were seated and said, "There's a man outside wants to speak to you, Mr. Campbell."

"Who is he, Saunders?"

"I think it's Jones, who used to be in your employ as light porter."

"How does he look? Well-to-do?"

"He is decidedly shabby," answered Saunders.

"Come to ask help, probably," muttered the merchant. "I think I won't see him."

Saunders left the office, but presently returned.

"Well, has he gone?" asked the merchant.

"No; he says he wants to see you on business of importance."

"Of importance to himself, probably.—Shall I see him, Orton?"

"Yes, father. If he is humbugging us, we can send him off."

So permission was given, and almost immediately Saunders ushered into the room a short, broad-shouldered fellow, who looked very much like a professional tramp.

"Good-morning, Mr. Campbell," said he, deferentially.

"Humph, Jones, is it you? You don't look as if you had prospered."

"No more I have, sir."

"Don't come near me. Really, your appearance is very disreputable."

"I can't help that, sir. I've just come from California in the steerage, and you can't keep very neat there."

"I believe you went to California to make your fortune, didn't you, Jones?" said Orton Campbell, with a cynical smile.

"Yes, Mr. Orton, I did."

"And you didn't make it, I infer from your appearance."

"I haven't got much money about me now," said Jones, with a shrug and a smile.

"You would have done better not to have left my employment, Jones," said the merchant. "You wanted higher pay, I believe, and as I wouldn't give it, you decided that you could better yourself at the mines."

"That is about so, sir."

"Well, and what luck did you have?"

"Good luck at first, sir. I made a thousand dollars at the mines in a few months."

"Indeed!" said Orton, in surprise.

"I came with it to San Francisco, and gambled it away in one night. Then I was on my beam-ends, as the sailors say."

"Did you go back?"

"No. I went to work in the city, and managed to get enough money to buy a steerage passage, and here I am."

"I suppose you have come to ask me to take you back into my employ? That, I take it, is your business with me."

"No, sir—not exactly."

"Then, what is it?" asked the merchant, looking a little puzzled. It crossed his mind that Jones might so far have forgotten his rule never to give away money for any purpose as to suppose there was a chance to effect a loan.

"I thought you and Mr. Orton might be willing to pay my expenses back to San Francisco," said Jones, coolly.

"Are you out of your head, Jones?" demanded Orton Campbell, amazed at the man's effrontery.

"Not at all."

"If this is meant as a joke, Jones," said the merchant in a dignified tone, "it is a very poor—and, I may add, a very impudent—one. What possible claim have you on us, that you should expect such a favor?"

"Have you heard anything of your ward, Mr. Campbell?" asked Jones, not in the least abashed.

"No. What has my ward to do with your concerns?"

"I have seen her," answered Jones, briefly.

"Where?" asked John Campbell and his son simultaneously.

"That information belongs to me," said Jones, quietly. "A detective doesn't work without pay."

The two Campbells now began to see the point. This man had information to sell, and would not give it up without what he considered suitable compensation. They determined to drive the best possible bargain with him. He was poor, and probably could be bought over for a small sum.

"Your information is worth something, Jones," said the merchant, guardedly. "I will go so far as to give you twenty-five dollars cash for it."

"That won't do," said Jones, shaking his head.

"Your information may be worth nothing," said Orton. "You may have seen her, but that doesn't show where she is now."

"I know where she is now," said Jones.

"Is she in California?"

"I don't mind telling you as much as that, Mr. Orton."

"Then we can find her without your assistance."

"I don't think you can. At any rate, it will take time, especially as, if you don't make a bargain with me, I shall write her that you are on her track."

Father and son looked at each other.

It was evident that Jones was no fool, and they would be obliged to submit to his terms or give up the search, which was not to be thought of.

"What do you propose, Jones?" asked Mr. Campbell, a little less haughtily.

"That you pay my expenses back to California and one thousand dollars," said Jones, promptly. "If you or Mr. Orton will go with me, I will show you where she lives, and then you can take your own course."

This was finally agreed to, and Orton Campbell and the ex-porter sailed by the next steamer for San Francisco, where Florence Douglas, still boarding with Mrs. Armstrong, was waiting impatiently for news of Richard Dewey.



CHAPTER XXII.

A MORNING CALL.

Florence Douglas had now been an inmate of Mrs. Armstrong's household for some months. She avoided making acquaintances, and therefore was often lonely. But she was buoyed up by the thought that Richard Dewey was somewhere in the State, and that the two messengers whom she had sent out would eventually find him. She felt great confidence in Ben, and also in Bradley, who had impressed her as an honest, straightforward man, though illiterate and not at all times superior to temptation.

Her hope had been sustained by a letter received from Ben at the time he and Bradley were on the point of starting for the Sierras, where they had information that Dewey was engaged in mining. Then weeks passed, and she heard nothing. She began to feel anxious for the safety of her two agents, knowing that not alone wild beasts, but lawless men, were to be encountered among the mountains. Should Ben and his companion come to harm, she would be sincerely sorry for their fate, feeling in a measure responsible for it. Still more, Richard Dewey would then be left ignorant of her presence in California, and might return to the East in that ignorance, leaving her friendless and alone more than three thousand miles from her old home.

How would her heart have been cheered could she have known that at that moment Richard Dewey, with his two faithful friends, was but four days' journey from the city! So it happens that good fortune is often nearer to us than we imagine, even when our hearts are most anxious.

While she was trying to look on the bright side one morning, Mrs. Armstrong entered her room. "Miss Douglas," she said, "there is a gentleman in the parlor who wishes to see you."

Her heart gave a great bound. Who could it be but Richard Dewey who would call upon her?

"Did he give his name?" she asked, in agitation.

"No; he said you would know him."

"It must be Richard," she said to herself; and, controlling her agitation as well as she could, she descended to the parlor. She paused a moment before opening the door to regain her self-possession. Then, with an effort, she turned the knob, and entering the room, found herself face to face with Orton Campbell!

It was so unexpected and so bitter a disappointment that an expression of blank dismay overspread her face, and she sank into the nearest chair without venturing on a single word of greeting.

"You didn't expect to see me, Miss Douglas?" said Orton, enjoying the effect of his appearance, for he had never deceived himself with the thought that his father's ward would be glad to see him.

By this time Florence had regained her self-possession, and with it came back scorn for the man whose object in pursuing her she well understood to be love of her fortune, not of herself.

"You are entirely right, Mr. Campbell," she answered. "You are the last person I expected to see."

"You don't appear very glad to see me," he continued.

"Why should I appear so? You know very well that I am not glad to see you," said the heiress, frankly.

"That is complimentary," said Orton, rather provoked, though he knew very well in advance that such was her feeling.

"I suppose you didn't come here for compliments, Mr. Campbell?" said Florence, coldly.

"You are right: I didn't."

"May I ask if you are in San Francisco on business?"

"You take things very coolly, I must say, Miss Douglas. Certainly you cannot be ignorant of my motive in coming here at great personal inconvenience."

"I hope I have nothing to do with your reason."

"You are the sole reason."

"I am sorry to hear it."

"I came to remonstrate with you on the very unwise step you took in running away from your legal guardian."

"My legal guardian, as you call him, though I look upon him as such only as far as my property is concerned, rendered the step necessary."

"I don't see how."

"In plain terms, Mr. Orton Campbell, I believe that you and your father entered into a conspiracy to keep my fortune in the family by inducing me to become your wife."

"I certainly did ask you to become my wife, but it was not because of your fortune," answered the young man.

Florence's lip curled. She thoroughly disbelieved his statement. Though she said nothing, it was clear to him from her expression that she put no confidence in his words.

"You may believe me or not," he said, doggedly; "but why should you think so poorly of yourself as to suppose you have nothing to attract lovers except your money?"

"I may not be so modest as you suppose, Mr. Campbell. I do believe that I have won the love of a true and noble man. My doubt only related to yourself."

"You mean Richard Dewey, I suppose?" said Orton Campbell, with a sneer.

"I do mean Richard Dewey," answered Florence, with composure.

"By the way, he came to California, I believe."

"Yes."

"And you came here in pursuit of him?" he added, with a sneer.

"I came here to find him, knowing that in him I had a true friend, while your father's persecution and your own made me feel the need of one."

"Have you found him? Do you know where he is?" asked Orton Campbell, eagerly.

"I only know he is somewhere at the mines. I have taken steps to find him, and hope eventually to succeed."

"Why don't you advertise?" asked the young man, with an angry sneer.

"Would you advise it?" asked Miss Douglas, coolly.

"No," muttered Orton, for he feared such a step might prove successful. "What steps have you taken?" he asked.

"I prefer to keep them to myself."

"Miss Douglas," said Orton Campbell, after a pause, "all this is very foolish and humiliating. There is only one proper course for you to pursue."

"What is it?"

"Return to New York with me in the next steamer, and place yourself once more under the care of my father, whose protection you never ought to have left."

"'Protection'!" repeated Florence, with bitter emphasis. "What protection did he give me?"

"All that was required."

"'All that was required'? You know very well that you and he had conspired to put me in a mad-house if I would not agree to enrich you by giving you my hand."

"That is not true," said Orton Campbell, rather confused.

"'Not true'? He distinctly threatened to do it as a means of terrifying me into compliance with his and your wishes. It was not until then that I decided to leave your house and seek some place of refuge until time and the law should set me completely free from your family and their machinations."

"It is evident, Miss Douglas, that you are under a delusion. Your way of talking is sufficient to show that your mind is affected. Any good physician would need no other proof."

Florence Douglas looked at him with distrust. Was this a threat, or how should she interpret it?

"It is convenient, Mr. Orton Campbell," she retorted with spirit, "to charge with madness those who oppose us. At home I felt afraid of your threats: here I am secure."

He thought that perhaps he had gone too far, since the young lady was independent of him, and it was not certain that he could gain possession of her.

"Miss Douglas," he said, "I have already told you that you have taken an unwise step. There is one way to remedy it, and I hope I may be able to induce you to take it. Let me assure you that I have called upon you as a friend, as a warm friend, as one who seeks to be something more than a friend."

"Well, sir?"

"Let me urge you to consent to an immediate marriage with me, and to accompany me home on the next steamer. My father will receive you as a daughter, and never allude to your flight."

"I suppose I ought to thank you for your disinterested proposal, Mr. Campbell, but I can only tell you that you ask what is entirely out of the question. This is final. Allow me to wish you good-morning."

"But, Miss Douglas—"

She did not turn back nor heed these last words, and Orton Campbell found himself alone.

He rose slowly from his seat, and an evil look came into his eyes. "She has not done with me yet," he muttered as he left the house.



CHAPTER XXIII.

A SECRET CONFERENCE.

The affairs of Florence Douglas are so interwoven with the fortunes of my young hero that I find myself obliged to devote a part of my space to their record. I confess that I have no pleasure in detailing the schemes of Orton Campbell, who seems to me a very disagreeable character, but it seems necessary.

After leaving the presence of Miss Douglas he took a walk, to consider the situation and decide what it was most expedient to do. He was spending considerable time and money in the effort to recover his father's ward, and he did not like to fail. Yet it was not easy to decide upon any plan which would bring success. It was not a matter in which he could invoke the assistance of the law. The young lady's manner convinced him that she would not of her own free will consent to accompany him back. What, then, was to be done?

On the principle that two heads are better than one, he resolved to take his companion, Jones, into his confidence and ask him to make a suggestion.

"How did you find the young lady, Mr. Orton?" asked his follower on his return to the hotel.

"Very offish, Jones."

"Then she wasn't glad to see you?" said Jones, with a grin.

"By no means. She hardly treated me with civility."

"That's because of the other man," said Jones, sagaciously.

"You are right. Mr. Dewey, as I learned, is in California."

"Then maybe they have an understanding together."

"No; she doesn't know where he is."

Jones was puzzled, and showed it in a way common to men of his class. He scratched his head and looked perplexed.

"Then, what good is it for her to stay here?" he asked, after a pause.

"She is taking steps to find this Dewey, who is somewhere at the mines, though she would not tell me what they were. He may turn up any time, and then good-bye to all my hopes."

"You want to marry her yourself, Mr. Orton?"

"Of course. Otherwise I wouldn't have come so far in search of her."

"The young lady is very rich, isn't she?" asked Jones, shrewdly.

"She has a moderate fortune," replied Orton, guardedly; "but that doesn't influence me."

"Of course not," said Jones; but there was something in his tone which made Campbell eye him sharply.

"I am no fortune-hunter," said he, stiffly.

"You'd want to marry her just the same if she hadn't a cent?"

"Of course I would," snapped Orton.

"Now, that's what I call real love," said Jones. "To be sure, you're rich yourself, and needn't mind."

"Precisely so. I may not be rich, but I can support a wife."

"As the young lady prefers some one else, I suppose we may as well go home?"

"That's what I want to talk to you about, Jones. Very likely this Dewey is dead; at any rate, he's a mere fortune-hunter. Now, although Florence doesn't care to marry me now, if our marriage could be brought about she would no doubt be reconciled to it after a while. Now, Jones, have you anything to suggest?"

Orton Campbell threw himself back in his chair and eyed Jones. He had formed a plan, but, if possible, he wanted the proposal to come from Jones.

Jones was not over-scrupulous; he had never been so, and the months he had spent in the mines in the company of adventurers of all kinds had not improved him. Even law-abiding citizens often lost their regard for law in California, and Jones had fewer scruples to overcome than most.

He suggested a plan which met with the approval of his employer, and promised his co-operation on the understanding that if successful Campbell should properly reward him.

It may be added that of the thousand dollars which he was to receive for his information he had actually received but three hundred, Orton Campbell having on various pretexts put off paying him. He received the assurance that this also should be paid him without further delay as soon as the plan referred to was successfully carried out.



CHAPTER XXIV.

MISS DOUGLAS RECEIVES A MESSAGE.

Florence Douglas felt somewhat uneasy after the visit of Orton Campbell. Though he had no legal right to interfere with her, even as the representative of his father, she knew the unscrupulous character of the man, and that he would not have spent time and money in a visit to California unless he had a strong hope of carrying her back with him. Her chief fear was that he would carry out his father's threat and try to have her pronounced of unsound mind, in which case he could have her confined in an asylum.

"If I could only hear from Richard Dewey!" she fervently ejaculated. "If he were here I would have nothing to fear."

Two days passed, and, considerably to her relief, she heard nothing from Campbell. She began to hope that he had given up his purpose and made arrangements to return to the East. She was determined to refuse him an audience if he should call upon her again, either with or without companions. That she might feel more secure, she took her landlady, Mrs. Armstrong, into her confidence.

This lady had become much attached to her guest, and listened with great indignation to the account which Florence gave her. "My dear Miss Douglas," she said, "if that man Campbell calls, leave me to deal with him."

"How would you propose to do it?" asked Florence, smiling.

"I would give him a piece of my mind, you may depend upon that."

"He would be rude to you."

"In that case I would order him out of the house," said Mrs. Armstrong, resolutely. "The man needs a lesson, and I should like to be the one to give it to him."

"I shall be very glad to have you meet him in my place," said the young lady. "An interview with him is something which I would gladly avoid."

"That you shall! I only hope he'll come soon. He'll find one woman that isn't afraid of him."

"I am not afraid of him, Mrs. Armstrong, but I own that I am apprehensive of what he may do. It would not surprise me at all if he should make his appearance with some needy physician who for a fee will be ready to pronounce me insane."

"Don't be alarmed, Miss Florence. I'll send the doctor packing, as well as his employer. Perhaps he will pronounce me insane. If he does, he is welcome to. I think he would find me an unsatisfactory patient."

"I think so too," said Florence, smiling, as she scanned the firm, determined face and the tall and muscular form of her hostess, who certainly would never be classed as a weak or timid woman.

On the afternoon of the third day a knock was heard at the door, for as yet it was unprovided with a bell.

Mrs. Armstrong and Florence were sitting together.

The two glanced at each other, and the same thought came to each.

"It may be Orton Campbell," said Florence, who was the first to speak.

"Then let me go to the door. Stay where you are, Miss Douglas; I will receive the gentleman."

But when the landlady opened the door she saw a man who looked like a coachman. A covered carriage was at the gate, which he had evidently driven.

"Well, sir, what can I do for you?" demanded the landlady, sharply.

"Is there a young lady living with you named Florence Douglas?" asked the man.

"Miss Florence Douglas boards here," answered Mrs. Armstrong.

"I've got a message for her, ma'am."

"If it's from Mr. Orton Campbell, you can go back and tell him that she won't receive any messages from him," said the landlady, resolutely.

"I don't know who you mean, ma'am," replied the man, in apparent surprise. "I don't know any such gentleman."

"Then who sent you?" inquired the landlady, whose turn it was to be surprised.

"It's a man just come from the mines," said the driver—"a Mr. Dewey."

Florence had drawn near to the head of the stairs in her interest to hear who had called, and she caught the name of her lover. She came flying down stairs, and demanded breathlessly, "What about Richard Dewey? I am Miss Douglas, and your message is for me."

Jones, for it was he, touched his hat respectfully, and held out a note penned on rough paper and written in pencil.

"This will explain everything, miss," he said.

Florence took the paper, and with some difficulty read it. It ran thus:

"DEAR FLORENCE: I have struggled to reach you, but have been struck down by fever when I was nearly at the end of my journey. I have had bad luck at the mines, and was almost discouraged, when I learned that you were in San Francisco. Poor as I was, I determined to come to you, even at the risk of your misjudging me. I am not able to write much, and must defer particulars till I see you. I am staying at the house of a kind stranger a few miles from the city. The man whom I send with this note is trustworthy. If you will trust yourself to his guidance, he will bring you to me. I know that I am asking a great deal of you, but I think you will not fail me.

"Yours, with love,

"RICHARD DEWEY."

The writing was hurried—indeed, it was hardly more than a scrawl.

"He must be very weak," thought Florence, her heart swelling with painful emotions.—"My good friend," she said to the landlady, "Richard is sick and poor. He asks me to come to him. I must go."

"But can you trust that man? Is the letter genuine?" asked Mrs. Armstrong, suspiciously.

"I am sure it is genuine. It is written as Richard would write."

"But don't be in haste, Miss Douglas—Florence. Make some inquiries, and find out whether this news can be depended upon."

"Would you have me hesitate when Richard needs me?" asked Florence, reproachfully. "No, Mrs. Armstrong, I must go, and at once. I have waited so long to see him!"

"He will be very glad to see you, miss," said Jones respectfully. "He has been talking about you constant."

"Were Ben and Mr. Bradley with him? Why didn't one of them come?"

"Because, miss," said Jones with ready invention, though he had never heard of either of the persons mentioned, "one went for the doctor, and the other stayed to take care of him."

This seemed very plausible. Without a particle of suspicion Florence Douglas hastily dressed herself and entered the carriage in waiting.



CHAPTER XXV.

WALKING INTO A TRAP.

The thought that she was so soon to see Richard Dewey, and to minister to his comfort, was a source of pleasure to Florence. Her patient waiting was at length to be rewarded. What mattered it to her that he was poor and sick? He had all the more need of her.

"It's a long ride, miss," said Jones as he closed the carriage-door. "I hope you won't be tired before we get there."

"I shall not mind it," said Florence. "How far is it?"

"I don't rightly know. It's a matter of ten miles, I'm thinkin'."

"Very well."

Jones resumed his seat, and Florence gave herself up to pleasant thoughts. She felt thankful that she was blessed with abundant means, since it would enable her to spare no expense in providing for the sick man. Others might call him a fortune-hunter, but that produced no impression upon her, except to make her angry. She had given her whole love and confidence to the man whom her heart had chosen.

The carriage rolled onward rapidly: as from time to time she glanced out of the window, she saw that they had left behind the town and were in the open country. She gave herself no concern, however, and did not question Jones, taking it for granted that he was on the right road, and would carry her to the place where Richard Dewey had found a temporary refuge.

"It is some poor place, probably," she reflected, "but if he can be moved I will have him brought into town, where he can see a skilful doctor daily."

At the end of an hour and a half there was a sudden stop.

Florence looked out of the carriage-window, and observed that they were in front of a shabby-looking dwelling of two stories.

Jones leaped from his elevated perch and opened the door of the carriage. "This is the place, miss," he said. "Did you get tired?"

"No, but I am glad we have arrived."

"It's a poor place, miss, but Mr. Dewey was took sick sudden, so I was told, and it was the best they could do."

"It doesn't matter. Perhaps he can be moved."

"Perhaps so. Will you go in?"

"Yes."

The door was opened, and a slatternly-looking woman of sinister aspect appeared at the threshold. Florence took no particular notice of her appearance, but asked, hurriedly, "How is he?"

"Oh, he'll get along," answered the woman, carelessly. "Will you come in?"

"He is not dangerously sick, then?" said Florence, relieved.

"He's got a fever, but ain't goin' to die this time."

"This is Mrs. Bradshaw, Miss Douglas," said Jones, volunteering an introduction.

"I thank you, Mrs. Bradshaw, for your kindness to a sick man and a stranger," said Florence, earnestly. "Can I see him now?"

"Yes, miss, if you'll just walk up stairs. I hope you'll excuse the looks of things; I haven't had time to fix up."

"Oh, don't mention it."

In a tumult of emotion Florence followed her guide up a rough staircase.

On the landing Mrs. Bradshaw opened a door and, standing aside, invited Florence to enter.

On a sofa, with his back to her, lay the figure of a man covered with a shawl.

"Richard!" said the visitor, eagerly.

The recumbent figure slowly turned, and revealed to the dismayed Florence, not the face of the man she expected to see, but that of Orton Campbell.

"Mr. Campbell!" she ejaculated, in bewilderment.

"I see you know me, Miss Douglas," said Orton Campbell, throwing off the shawl and rising from the couch.

For the first time it dawned upon Florence that she had walked into a trap. She hurried to the door and strove to open it, but Mrs. Bradshaw had locked it.

"What does this mean, Mr. Campbell?" she demanded with spirit, in spite of her terror. "Is this unworthy trick of your devising?"

"I am afraid I must confess that it is," said Orton, coolly.

"And it was all a falsehood about Richard Dewey's sickness?"

"Yes."

"And the note?"

"I wrote it myself."

"Then, sir, you have acted shamefully," said Florence, indignantly.

"I am afraid I have," said Orton Campbell, smiling, "but I couldn't help it!"

"'Couldn't help it'?" repeated Miss Douglas.

"No; you would not receive me, and I had to contrive an interview."

"Do you know anything of Richard Dewey?"

"No; he is perfectly well, so far as I know, or he may be dead. Pray be seated."

"I would rather stand. May I ask what you expect to gain by this base deception?"

"Your consent to a marriage with me."

"Then it is clear you don't know me, Orton Campbell."

"It is quite as clear, Miss Florence Douglas, that you don't know me."

"I believe you capable of any atrocity."

"Then you do know me. I am capable of anything that will break down your opposition to my suit."

"Do you propose to keep me here?"

"Yes, until you give me a favorable answer."

"That will never be."

"Then you will stay here an indefinite period."

"Are there no laws in California?"

"None that will interfere with me. The people who live here are devoted to my interests, as you will find. I don't wish to hurry you in your decision, and will therefore leave you for the present. Your meals will be sent you at regular times, and I will call again to-morrow."

He drew a key from his pocket, opened the door, and left the room, locking the door behind him.

Florence sank into a chair, almost in despair.



CHAPTER XXVI.

A HARD-HEARTED JAILER.

Florence soon recovered a degree of self-possession, and began to consider the situation. The room in which she so unexpectedly found herself a prisoner was about fifteen feet square. There were two front windows, from which she took a survey of the neighborhood, which she had but slightly observed from the windows of the carriage. She could see no other house, and naturally concluded that this had been selected on account of its lonely location.

The distance from the window-sill to the ground was not over twelve feet, and Florence began to consider whether she could not manage to escape in this way.

She tried to open one of the windows, but could not stir it. Closer examination showed her that it had been nailed down. She went to the second window, and found that secured in a similar way.

"They evidently anticipated that I would try to escape," she thought to herself.

Next her thoughts recurred to the woman who appeared to be the mistress of the house. Not that she had any intention of appealing to her kindness of heart, for the hard-featured Mrs. Bradshaw was not a woman likely to be influenced by any such considerations. Florence had enjoyed but a transient view of the lady's features, but she already had a tolerably correct idea of her character.

"She is probably mercenary," thought Florence, "and is in Orton Campbell's pay. I must outbid him."

This thought inspired hope, especially when from the window she saw her persecutor ride away on horseback. This would gave her a fair field and a chance to try the effect of money upon her jailer without risk of interruption. She would have felt less sanguine of success if she had heard the conversation which had just taken place between Mrs. Bradshaw and her captor:

"Mind, Mrs. Bradshaw, you must not let the young lady leave her room on any consideration."

"All right, sir."

"I take it for granted, Mrs. Bradshaw, you are not easily taken in?"

"I should say not, sir," said the woman, emphatically.

"The young lady will try to impose upon you while I am away."

"Then she'd better save her trouble," said Mrs. Bradshaw, tossing her head.

"She's very artful," said Orton. "Most crazy people are."

"You don't mean to say she's crazy?" said Mrs. Bradshaw in surprise. "She don't look like it."

"You are quite right. She doesn't look like it, but she wrong here," continued Campbell, tapping his forehead. "Why, she fancies herself immensely rich, Mrs. Bradshaw, when, as a matter of fact, she's a penniless cousin of mine, who would have gone to the poorhouse but for my father's charity."

"You don't say so!" exclaimed Mrs. Bradshaw, interested.

"Sometimes she thinks she's worth millions of dollars. I wish she were, for in that case my father would be relieved of the burden of supporting her."

"To be sure, sir!"

"Some time since she managed to elude our vigilance and escaped from our home in Albany. Knowing how feeble-minded she was, we felt very anxious about her, but for some time were unable to get a trace of her. Finally, we learned that she had been seen in California, and I came out at great personal inconvenience to bring her back."

"Very kind of you, sir, I am sure: but how could she travel so far without money?"

"That is easily explained. She opened my father's desk and took out some hundreds of dollars," answered Orton Campbell, with unblushing falsehood. "Of course, we don't consider her responsible, as she is of unsound mind. Otherwise, we should look upon her as very ungrateful."

"She seems to be very good-looking," observed Mrs. Bradshaw.

"So she is, and if her mind were healthy I can imagine that she would be admired. As it is, her beauty counts for nothing."

"To be sure!"

"I hope to calm her down, and induce her without a violent disturbance to embark on the next steamer for New York with me. She won't listen to me now, but I shall call to-morrow forenoon and see how she appears. Meanwhile, she will probably try to bribe you to release her. She may promise you thousands, perhaps millions, of dollars, for it's all the same to her, poor thing! But of course you're too sensible a woman to be taken in by the promises of a crazy girl?"

"I should say so!" returned Mrs. Bradshaw, who was thoroughly deceived by the artful story of her employer, who, by the way, had promised her one hundred dollars for her co-operation in his scheme.

"She will probably tell you that she came to California in search of her lover, who is at the mines. Of course there is no such person, but she thinks there is."

"I understand," said the woman, confidently.

"I thought you would. Well, Mrs. Bradshaw, I will see you to-morrow. I am sure you are to be relied upon."

About six o'clock Mrs. Bradshaw carried up some supper to her prisoner.

"I hope you've got an appetite, miss," she said.

"Stay a moment," said Florence, eagerly. "I want to speak to you."

"Now it's coming," thought Mrs. Bradshaw, with some curiosity. She was rather taken aback by the first words of her prisoner:

"How much money has Mr. Orton Campbell promised to pay you for assisting him in his plot?"

"Well, I declare!" said Mrs. Bradshaw, bridling, for though she had been bribed she did not like to confess it.

"He is to pay me rent for this room," she said, after a pause.

"Then I am your lodger, am I?" asked Florence.

"I suppose so," answered the woman, rather embarrassed by this unexpected question.

"Very well, then. I don't think I care to occupy the room. I will pay you a week's rent out of my own purse, and leave you after supper."

"I think not," said Mrs. Bradshaw, decidedly.

"Then I am to consider myself your prisoner?"

"You may call it so if you like."

"It is just as well to call things by their right names. Of course Mr. Campbell has hired you to detain me here. Tell me how much he is to pay you, and I will pay you more to release me."

"Then you are rich, I suppose?" said the woman.

"Yes, I am rich."

Mrs. Bradshaw laughed. "You are worth several millions, I suppose?" she said, mockingly.

"Certainly not. Who told you so?"

"Mr. Campbell warned me that you would pretend you were rich."

"It is no pretence; I am rich, though at present his father has the greater part of my fortune under his charge."

"Oh, of course!" said the woman, laughing again. "I understand all about it."

"What has Orton Campbell told you?" asked Florence, suspiciously.

"He said you would pretend to be rich, and try to bribe me, though you were only a poor relation of his who would have gone to the poorhouse unless his father had supported you out of charity."

"He has deceived you, Mrs. Bradshaw. His father wanted me to marry this man in order to keep my fortune in his own family. That is why I ran away from his house."

"What made you come to California?" asked the woman.

"Because the man whom I really loved was at work somewhere in the mines."

"Ho! ho!" laughed Mrs. Bradshaw, loudly.

"Why do you laugh?"

"Because you are as crazy as a loon. Mr. Campbell told me just what you would say. He told me all about your stealing money from his father's desk, and running off to California after a lover in the mines. It's turned out exactly as he said."

"Did he dare to slander me in that way?" demanded Florence, so indignantly that her jailer drew back in some alarm.

"No violence, miss, if you please," she said. "You'd better be quiet, or you'll have to be tied."

"Good Heavens!" exclaimed Florence, "I would not have believed Orton Campbell so false and artful!"

"He's acting for your good, miss. So you'd better not make a fuss;" and the landlady left the room, not failing to lock the door securely behind her.



CHAPTER XXVII.

A STAR IN THE CLOUD.

Meanwhile, though things looked dark for Florence and favorable for her persecutor, there was one circumstance that threatened failure to the latter's plans. Orton Campbell was a mean man, and his meanness in this instance worked against him. He had promised his confederate, Jones, a thousand dollars as the price of his information and co-operation, but intended all the while to avoid paying it if it were a possible thing. Of this sum seven hundred dollars were still due, besides an extra sum for the services of Jones in making Florence a captive.

It was in regard to these sums that Jones called on Mr. Campbell on the evening succeeding the success of the plot.

Orton Campbell was about to go out when Jones appeared at his hotel.

"I would like to see you a few minutes, Mr. Orton," said the man respectfully.

"You must come some other time, Jones," said Campbell, carelessly; "I've got an engagement."

"I must see you now, sir," said Jones, still respectfully, but in a resolute tone.

"'Must'?" repeated Orton Campbell, arching his brows. "You are impertinent."

"Call me what you please," said Jones, doggedly; "I'm not to be put off."

"What do you mean?" demanded his employer, angrily.

"You know well enough. I want the money you are owing me."

"You seem to be in a hurry," said Campbell, with a sneer.

"You don't," retorted Jones. "All I ask is that you will keep your promise."

"What promise do you refer to?"

"'What promise do I refer to?' You said if I would join you in kidnapping—"

"Hush!" said Orton looking around, apprehensive of listeners.

"The young lady," Jones continued, "you would pay me the seven hundred dollars you owed me, and two hundred dollars extra for my help."

Now, Orton Campbell knew very well that he had made this promise, but the payment of nine hundred dollars he dreaded as much as some of my readers would dread the extraction of half a dozen teeth. He had got all he needed from Jones, and he decided that it would be safe to throw him off. It might be dishonorable, but for that he cared little.

"I suppose you have my promise in writing, Jones?" he said, with a sneer.

"No, I haven't, Mr. Campbell."

"Then you can't prove that I owe you anything, I take it."

"You don't mean to say, Mr. Orton, you'd cheat a poor man out of his hard-earned money?" ejaculated Jones, who, in spite of his knowledge of his employer's character, could hardly believe his ears.

"I never intended to give you such an enormous sum for the little you have done for me."

"Didn't you promise it, sir?" demanded Jones, exasperated.

"Not that I remember," answered Campbell, coolly. "I should have been a fool to promise so large a sum. I paid your expenses out to California and three hundred dollars. That, I take it, is pretty liberal pay for your services for a month."

"I'll have justice if I live!" said Jones, furiously.

He looked so threatening that Orton Campbell thought it might be best to placate him, even at the expense of a small extra sum. "Don't be a fool, Jones," he said. "You know very well that your demands are beyond all reason. I've treated you very liberally already, but I don't mind doing a little more. I'll go so far as to give you fifty dollars down, and a further sum of one hundred dollars on my wedding-day if I marry Florence Douglas, if you'll be content with that."

"I won't be content with it, Orton Campbell," said Jones, indignantly; "I won't be content with anything less than the full sum you promised me. You'd better pay me at once, or you may see trouble."

Orton Campbell should have known that it was dangerous to trifle with a man so thoroughly roused as Jones was, but his love of money and dislike to part with it overcame every other consideration, and he said, "You've refused my offer, and I have done with you. You needn't come near me again."

"Do you mean this?" asked Jones, slowly.

"Of course I do. You have served my purpose, and been paid. I have offered you more, and you have refused it. That ends everything."

"I understand you now, Orton Campbell."

"Mr. Campbell, if you please," interrupted Campbell, haughtily.

"Mr. Campbell, then; and I am sorry I didn't know you better before, but it isn't too late yet."

"That's enough: you can go."

As Jones walked away Campbell asked himself, "What is the fellow going to do, I wonder? I suppose he will try to annoy me. Never mind: I have saved nine hundred dollars. That will more than cover all the damage he can do me."

It was about the same hour that a party of three, dusty and shabby, entered San Francisco, and made their way to a respectable but not prominent hotel.

"We look like three tramps, Ben," said Bradley. "Anywhere but in San Francisco I don't believe we could get lodged in any respectable hotel, but they'll know at once that we are from the mines, and may have a good store of gold-dust in spite of our looks."

"If my friends at home could see me now," said Ben, laughingly, "they wouldn't think I had found my trip to California profitable. It would give my friend Sam Sturgis a good deal of pleasure to think that I was a penniless adventurer."

"He might be disappointed when he heard that you were worth not far from a thousand dollars, Ben."

"He certainly would be. On the other hand, Uncle Job would be delighted. I wish I could walk into his little cottage and tell him all about it."

"When you go home, Ben, you must have more money to carry than you have now. A thousand dollars are all very well, but they are not quite enough to start business on."

"A year ago I should have felt immensely rich on a thousand dollars," said Ben, thoughtfully.

"No doubt; but you are young enough to wait a little longer. After our friend Dewey has seen his young lady and arranged matters we'll dust back to our friends, the miners who came near giving us a ticket to the next world, and see whether fortune won't favor us a little more."

"Agreed!" said Ben; "I shall be ready.—Shall you call on Miss Douglas this evening, Mr. Dewey?" asked Ben.

"Yes," answered Dewey. "I cannot bear to feel that I am in the same city and refrain from seeing her."

"Will she know you in your present rig?" suggested Bradley.

"I shall lose no time in buying a new outfit," said Dewey. "There must be shops where all articles of dress can be obtained ready-made."

"I was afraid you were going as you are," said Bradley. "Of course she'd be glad to see you, but she might be sensitive about her friends; and that wouldn't be agreeable to you, I'm thinkin'."

"I thank you for your kind suggestion, my good friend," said Dewey; "no doubt you are right."

Richard Dewey swallowed a hasty supper, and then sought the clothing shops, where he had no difficulty in procuring a ready-made outfit. So many persons came from the mines in his condition, desiring similar accommodation, that he was not required to go far to secure what he wanted.

Then, having obtained from Ben the proper directions, he took his way to the house of Mrs. Armstrong, which he reached about eight o'clock.

"Can I see Miss Florence Douglas?" he asked.

Mrs. Armstrong, hearing the request, came herself to the door. She was feeling anxious about the prolonged absence of her young friend.

"May I ask your name, sir?" she inquired.

"Richard Dewey."

"'Richard Dewey'?" repeated Mrs. Armstrong, in amazement. "Why, I thought you were sick in bed!"

"What made you think so?" asked Dewey, in equal amazement.

"Your own note. Miss Douglas, on receiving it, went away at once with the messenger, and has not returned."

"I have sent no note, and no messenger has come from me. I don't understand you," said Richard Dewey, bewildered.

It was soon explained, and the bitter disappointment of Dewey may well be imagined. This feeling was mingled with one of apprehension for the personal safety of the young lady.

"This is indeed alarming," he ejaculated. "Who can have planned such an outrage?"

"I will tell you, sir," said a voice.

Turning quickly, Richard Dewey's glance rested upon Jones.



CHAPTER XXVIII.

JONES CHECKMATES ORTON CAMPBELL.

"Who are you?" inquired Richard Dewey, not favorably impressed by the appearance of the man who addressed him.

"You wouldn't know if I should tell you," said Jones; "so I may as well say that I came out to San Francisco with Orton Campbell."

"Orton Campbell in the city?" exclaimed Dewey, apprehensively. "Had he anything to do with the disappearance of Miss Douglas?"

"Everything, sir; but I can't tell you about it in the street. I will go with you to your hotel."

"Tell me on the way," said Richard Dewey. "First, has any harm befallen Florence—Miss Douglas?"

"None as yet."

"Is any threatened?"

"The loss of her liberty; but I will help you to thwart Orton Campbell."

Jones told the story, which need not be repeated here, as it is already known to the reader. He had difficulty in restraining Mr. Dewey from starting out instantly to the rescue of the young lady, but on his representing that she was safe, and that it would be soon enough to go out in the morning, Richard Dewey yielded.

A little before eight o'clock, Jones, driving the same carriage in which he had conveyed Florence to her place of captivity, halted in front of Mrs. Bradshaw's dwelling.

"Remain in the carriage, Mr. Dewey," he said, "and I will see if I can't secure the young lady without any fuss."

"Won't it be better for me to accompany you?"

"I think not, sir. Mrs. Bradshaw knows I am the one who brought Miss Douglas here, and she will think it is all right. Stay!" he continued, with a sudden thought. "I have an idea. Mr. Campbell told Mrs. Bradshaw that the young lady was insane. I will make her think that you are the doctor from the asylum come to take Miss Douglas back with you."

"Did Orton Campbell really intend such an outrage?" asked Richard Dewey, in a tone of horror.

"Yes, if Miss Douglas wouldn't consent to marry him."

"Go, then, and lose no time."

Jones knocked at the door, which was opened by Mrs. Bradshaw in person. She naturally regarded Jones with surprise, not anticipating so early a call.