"What was that, Neb?"

"Som't'ing 'bout a gal, Massa Jack—an' a law suit—an' how de ol' man better settle up widout no fightin'. I jest didn't git de whole ob it, he talked so low like."

"What did Waite say?"

"Well, mostly he jest cussed. He sho' told dat black debble 'bout what he thought ob him, but he didn't nebber once call him Hawley—no, sah, not once; he done call him Bartlett, or somet'ing or odder like dat. But he sutt'nly read dat man's pedigree from way back to de time ob de flood, I reck'n. An' he done swore he'd fight for whatebber it was, papers or no papers. Den Hawley, he got plumb tired ob de ol' man swearin' at him, an' he grabbed a picter out ob he's pocket, an' says, 'Damn you; look at dat! What kind ob a fight can yo' make against dat face?' De ol' man stared at it a while, sorter chokin' up; den he say softer like: 'It's Hope; where did yo' ebber get dat?' and de black debble he laughed, an' shoved de picter back into he's pocket. 'Hope, hell!' he say, 'it's Phyllis, an' I'll put her before any jury yo're mind to get—oh, I've got yo' nailed, Waite, dis time.'"

"Was that all?"

"De ol' gin'ral he didn't seem ter know what ter say; he done set dar lookin' off ober de prairie like he was clar flumegasted. He sho' did look like dat black debble hed hit him mighty hard. Den he says slow like, turnin' his hoss 'round: 'Bartlett, yo' am puttin' up a good bluff, but, by Gawd, I'm goin' ter call yo'. Yo' don't get a cent ob dat money 'less yo' put up de proof. I'll meet yo' whar yo' say, but ef I can git hol' ob some papers dat's missin' I'll take dat grin off yo' face.' De odder one laughed, an' de ol' gin'ral started fo' ter ride away, den he pull up he's hoss, an' look back. 'Yo' sorter herd wid dat kind ob cattle, Bartlett,' he say, sharp like, 'maybe yo' know a gambler roun' yere called Hawley?' De black debble nebber eben lose he's grin. 'Do yo' mean Black Bart Hawley?' 'Dat's the man, where is he?' 'Dealin' faro fo' Mike Kenna in Topeka a week ago—friend ob yours?' 'Dat's none ob yo' damned business,' snorted de ol' gin'ral, givin' his hoss de spur. Sho', Massa Jack, he nebber knowed he was talkin' ter dat same Hawley, an' dat black debble jest laughed as he rode off."

"When was all this, Neb?"

"'Bout de time yo' all went up on de hill, I reck'n. I done come right yere, and waited."

Keith walked across the room, selected a cigar, and came back, his mind busy with the problem. Hawley had in some manner, then, got into communication with Waite, and was threatening him. But Waite evidently knew the man under another name—his given name—and the gambler had sent him off on a false trail. The lost papers apparently contained the solution to all this mystery. Waite believed Hawley possessed them, but did not suspect that Bartlett and Hawley were the same person. What would he most naturally do now? Seek Hawley in Topeka probably; seize the first opportunity of getting there. Keith turned impatiently to the clerk.

"Any train running east?"

"Well, they generally start one out every day,", with a glance toward the clock, "'long 'bout this time. Maybe it's gone, and maybe it hasn't."

It was already nearly dark outside as the two men hastened toward the depot. They arrived there barely in time to see the red lights on the last car disappear. No inquiries made of those lounging about brought results—they had been interested in a lot of drunken graders loaded on the flat cars by force, and sent out under guard—and not one could tell whether any man answering Waite's description was in the single passenger coach. Convinced, however, that the General would waste no time in prosecuting his search, Keith believed him already on his way east, and after dismissing Neb, with instructions to watch out closely for Hawley, he made his own way back to the hotel.

It seemed strange enough how completely he was blocked each time, just as he thought the whole baffling mystery was about to be made clear. Hawley was playing in rare luck, all the cards running easily to his hand, thus, at least, gaining time, and strengthening his position. There could no longer be any doubt that the gambler possessed some knowledge which made him a formidable adversary. From Waite's statement it was the loss of the papers which left him helpless to openly resist the claim being made upon him on behalf of the mysterious Phyllis. His only hope, therefore, lay in recovering these; but, with time limited, he had been sent back on a wild goose chase, while Keith alone knew, with any degree of positiveness, where those documents really were. Hawley certainly had them in his possession the day before, for he had taken them to Miss Maclaire to thus convince her as to the truth of his statements. And Hawley was still in Sheridan. However, it was not likely the man would risk carrying documents of such value, and documents connecting him so closely with that murder on the Santa Fe Trail, about upon his person. At best, life was cheap in that community, and Black Bart must possess enemies in plenty. Yet if not on his person—where? Scott was only a tool, a mere ignorant desperado, not to be trusted to such a degree—yet apparently he was the only one working with the gambler in this deal, the only one cognizant as to his plans. Christie—Keith came to a stop in the street at the recurrence of the woman's name. Why not? If she had been convinced, if she really believed that these papers proved her right to both property and parentage, then she would guard them as a tigress does her young. And Hawley would know that, and must realize they would be far safer in her hands than in his pocket. She could not use them without his aid and guidance, and yet, whatever happened to him, they would still be safely beyond reach. True, this might not have been done; the gambler might not yet have felt that he had sufficient hold upon the woman to trust her thus far, but it was, at least, a possibility to be considered, and acted upon.

Still wrestling with the intricate problem, Keith entered the dining-room, and weaved his way, as usual, through the miscellaneous crowd, toward the more exclusive tables at the rear. A woman sat alone at one of these, her back toward the door. His first thought was that it must be Hope, and he advanced toward her, his heart throbbing. She glanced up, a slight frown wrinkling her forehead, and he bowed, recognizing Christie Maclaire.



Chapter XXVI. A Chance Conversation



The opportunity thus so unexpectedly afforded was not one to be wasted, and Keith accepted it with swift determination. The expression in the woman's face was scarcely one of welcome, yet his purpose was sufficiently serious to cause him to ignore this with easy confidence in himself.

"I am, indeed, most fortunate to discover you alone, Miss Maclaire," he said, avoiding her eyes by a swift glance over the table, "and evidently at a time when you are only beginning your meal. May I join you?"

She hesitated for an instant, debating with herself, and as quickly deciding on disagreeable tactics.

"I presume this is a public table, and I consequently have little choice in the matter, if you insist," she replied, her voice more civil than her words. "Still, Mr. Keith, I am not accustomed to associating with criminals."

He smiled, holding his temper in check, more than ever determined to win.

"Then, possibly, you may rather welcome a new diversion. I can assure you our criminals out here are the most interesting portion of our population. I wish I might have your permission."

Standing there before her, bare-headed, his slightly tanned face strong and manly, his gray eyes filled with humor, Miss Maclaire recognized again that he was not of the common herd, and the innate coquetry of her nature obtained mastery. What harm could it do for her to chat with him for half an hour? It was better than eating a lonely meal, and, besides, she might learn something of value to report to Hawley. Her own eyes brightened, the slight frown disappearing.

"You are certainly an illustration of your theory," she said pleasantly. "I shall have to say yes, but, really, I did not suppose you would enjoy being ranked among that class."

He drew out a chair, and sat down facing her, leaning slightly forward upon the intervening table.

"Nor would I, only I recognize you do not comprehend. The source of your information is a bit polluted, Miss Maclaire. There are those whose good opinion I do not seek, and you should not form your decisions on the unsupported testimony of a personal enemy."

"Oh, indeed," rather resenting the words, and already regretful of her compliance. "Surely I have as much reason to trust my informant as I have you. He, at least, has proven himself a friend."

"I wish I could feel as fully assured of that as you do," he returned honestly. "I would then have every temptation to meddle further taken away from me. Do you realize that my interest is very largely upon your account?"

"Oh, no," laughing, "I couldn't believe that. I—I have heard it whispered it might be because of the other girl."

"The other girl!" in complete surprise at this swift return.

"Yes, sir," conscious of having attained the upper hand. "Miss Hope Waite."

"Some more of Mr. Hawley's fancies," he retorted, perplexed that so much should be suspected. "Have you seen her?"

"Why, of course. I am a woman, Mr. Keith, with all the natural curiosity of my sex. In this case I had special reason to be interested. One does not meet her counterpart every day."

"The resemblance between you is certainly most striking."

"Sufficiently so," she said slowly, her eyes on his face, "to abundantly confirm in my mind the truth of all that has been told me."

The waiter approached with the orders, and the two remained in silence until he had deposited his load upon the table, and departed. She was watching the face opposite through lowered lashes that veiled her eyes, but Keith was first to break the stillness.

"I wish I might be told what that was."

"To what do you refer?" apparently forgetful as to where their conversation had been broken.

"To Hawley's proposition."

"No doubt," her lips smiling, "but you have come to the wrong market, Mr. Jack Keith."

"Yet," he insisted earnestly, "if this is all straight, with no fraud concealed anywhere, if you have the proofs in your hands, why are you afraid to talk openly? The very manner in which Hawley works should convince you he is himself afraid to face the truth."

"No, you are wrong. There are perfectly satisfactory reasons why we should for the present keep our plans secret. There are details yet to be decided upon, and Mr. Hawley's present objection to publicity is only ordinary prudence."

She leaned toward him, her fingers playing nervously with a knife.

"Mr. Keith, I cannot help but like you, and I also feel most kindly disposed toward Mr. Hawley. I wish in this I was no longer compelled to consider you an enemy to us both. There is no reason why I should, except for your blind prejudice against this other man who is my friend. I know you have some cause, for he has told me the entire story, yet I am sure he did no more than his actual duty. He let me realize how very sorry he was that the marshal at Carson City had called upon him for assistance."

"Who? Hawley?" Keith questioned, hardly trusting his own ears.

"Yes; indeed he is a very different man from what you have been led to believe. I know he is a gambler, and all that, but really it is not altogether his fault. He told me about his life, and it was very sad. He was driven from home when only a boy, and naturally drifted into evil company. His one ambition is, to break away, and redeem himself. I am so anxious to help him, and wish you could realize his purpose, as I do, and become his friend. Won't you, for my sake? Why, even in this affair he has not the slightest mercenary purpose—he has only thought of what was rightfully mine."

Keith listened, feeling to the full the woman's earnestness, the impossibility of changing her fixed conviction. Hawley had planted his seed deep and well in fruitful soil.

"You make a strong and charming advocate, Miss Maclaire," he returned, feeling the necessity of saying something. "I should like to have you equally earnest on my side. Yet it will be hard to convince me that 'Black Bart' is the paragon of virtue you describe. I wish I might believe for your sake. Did he also explain how he came into possession of these papers?"

"Oh, yes, indeed; there is no secret about that. They were entrusted to him by an old man whom he discovered sick in Independence, and who died in his rooms three years ago. Mr. Hawley has been searching ever since for the old man's grand-daughter. It is remarkable how he was finally convinced that I was the one."

"A photograph, was it not?"

A gleam of sudden suspicion appeared in the brown eyes, a slight change in facial expression.

"That was a clue, yes, but far from being all. But why should I tell you this?—you believe nothing I say."

"I believe that you believe; that you are fully convinced of the justice of your claim. Perhaps it is just, but I am suspicious of anything which Bart Hawley has a hand in. Miss Christie, you really make me wish to retain your friendship, but I cannot do so if the cost includes faith in Hawley. Do you know that is not even his name—that he lives under an alias?"

"Is there anything strange in that out here?" she asked stoutly. "I told you how deeply he regretted his life; that alone would be sufficient cause for him to drop his family name. Did you ever learn his true name?"

He was not sure—only as Neb had reported what Waite had called the man, yet ventured a direct reply.

"Bartlett, I believe—he uses it now as a prefix."

"Bartlett!—Bartlett!" her hands clasping, and unclasping nervously. "Why, what a strange coincidence!"

"How? What do you mean?"

"Oh, nothing—nothing," biting her lips in vexation. "The name merely recalled something. But really I must go, Mr. Keith, or I shall be late at the theatre. You have not attended since I came?"

"No," arising from the table with her. "However, I have heard you sing before, and hope I may again."

"How tenderly you dwell on that word 'hope,'" she said banteringly, "it almost makes me envious."

"Your resemblance almost makes me forget."

"But not quite?"

"No, not quite," he confessed, smiling back into her quizzing eyes.

They went out into the hall together, only to meet with Doctor Fairbain at the door. The latter stared at the two with some embarrassment, for a moment forgetful of his purpose. His gaze settled on the face of the lady.

"Always getting you two mixed," he blurted forth. "Never saw such resemblance—positively uncanny—same hotel too means trouble—this Miss Waite?"

"No, Doctor; I am Miss Maclaire."

"Ought to have known it—if I knew as much about faces as I do about anatomy never would make such mistake—very sorry—what fooled me was seeing you with Keith—thought he was after the other one—gay dog though—never satisfied—was hunting after you."

"After me?" evidently amused.

"Certainly—you—went to the room—then to the clerk—said you were in at supper—just occurred to me streets here bad at night—thought I'd ask you to let me escort you to theatre and back—a bit of lunch later—" he glanced suspiciously at Keith—"probably got here too late."

"Well really you have, Doctor," she replied sweetly, veiling her eyes to hide their laughter. "But I can assure you it is not Mr. Keith," courtesying slightly to the latter, "for he has not honored me; we merely met by chance at the table. I am sure I should enjoy your company exceedingly, but to-night I must plead a previous engagement."

"Ah—ah, some other night?"

"With pleasure, yes."

The doctor faded away into the office, not wholly satisfied because Keith still lingered. Miss Christie extended her hand.

"Isn't he a funny man? But I do like him—someway I like so many people whom perhaps I ought not, including you, Mr. Jack Keith. Please think over what I told you about Mr. Hawley, won't you?"

"Certainly; you have given me food for thought. I presume he is to be your escort?"

She bowed, evidently resenting the question.

"Yes, and it may interest you to know that he has something of the utmost importance to tell me to-night—he has actually seen my guardian. Don't you wish you could be there?"

She gave him a tantalizing smile, withdrawing her hand, and running up the stairs before he could answer. Over the railing of the landing she glanced down, and then disappeared.



Chapter XXVII. Miss Hope Suggests



No sooner had Miss Maclaire vanished than Keith's thoughts turned toward Hope Waite. She would need someone in her loneliness to take her mind from off her brother's death, and, besides, much had occurred of interest since the funeral, which he desired to talk over with her. Beyond even these considerations he was becoming aware of a pleasure in the girl's company altogether foreign to this mystery which they were endeavoring together to solve. He yearned to be with her, to look into her face, to mark how clearly the differing soul changed her from Christie Maclaire. He could not help but like the latter, yet somehow was conscious of totally different atmospheres surrounding the two. With one he could be flippant, careless, even deceitful, but the other aroused only the best that was in him, her own sincerity making him sincere.

Yet there was reluctance in his steps as he approached the door of "15," a laggardness he could not explain, but which vanished swiftly enough at Hope's greeting, and the sudden smile with which she recognized him.

"I was sure you would come," she declared frankly, "and I took an early lunch so as to be certain and be here. It has seemed a long time since."

"And you might have even thought I had forgotten," he answered, releasing her hand reluctantly, "if you could have looked into the dining-room since, instead of staring out of these windows."

"Why? How forgotten?" her eyes opening wide in surprise.

"I had the pleasure of taking supper with Miss Maclaire."

"Oh!" the exclamation decidedly expressive.

"Yes, I come at once to you with the confession. However, our meeting was purely accidental, and so I hope for pardon."

"Pardon from me? Why, what difference can it possibly make to me?"

"Would you have me consort with the enemy?" he asked, scarcely daring to press his deeper meaning.

"Oh, no, of course not. What did you talk about? Do you mind telling?"

"Not in the least; our conversation was entirely impersonal. She was telling me about Hawley; what a wonderfully good man he is. I have begun to suspect the fellow has fascinated the poor girl—he is a good looking devil, possessed of a tongue dripping with honey."

"Surely you do not mean she has fallen in love with him," and Hope shuddered at the thought. "Why—why that would be impossible for—for a good woman."

"Standards of morality are not always the same," he defended gravely. "Miss Maclaire's environment has been vastly different from yours, Hope. She is a variety hall singer; probably, from her own account, a waif since childhood; and Hawley has come to her in the character of a friend, appealing both to her interest and sympathy. I do not know she is in love with him, I merely suspect she may be; certainly she is ready to do battle on his behalf at the slightest opportunity. She believes in him, defends him, and resents the slightest insinuation directed against him. He even escorts her back and forth from her work."

"You know this?"

"I certainly do," and he laughed at the recollection. "Fairbain met us coming out of the dining-room,—you know what a delightful, blunt, blundering old fellow he is! Well, Miss Christie must have made an impression even on his bachelor heart, for he actually requested the privilege of escorting her to the Trocadero, and back to the hotel after the performance to-night—hinted at a lunch, the gay old dog, and pranced about like a stage-door Johnnie. It was a treat to watch her face when he blurted it all out, snapping his sentences as if he swung a whip-lash. She excused herself on the score of a previous engagement."

"But that was not necessarily with Hawley."

"I asked her directly, after the doctor had disappeared."

"You must have become very familiar," questioning once again in her voice.

"So Miss Maclaire evidently thought, judging from her manner. However she answered frankly enough, and, even defiantly, added the information that the gentleman had something to impart to her of the utmost importance, sarcastically asking me if I didn't wish I could be there and overhear. But sit down, Hope, until I tell you all that has occurred."

He went over the various events in detail, watching eagerly the expression upon her face as she listened intently, only occasionally interrupting with some pertinent inquiry. The light fell so that she sat partially in the shadow, where her eyes could not be read, yet he experienced no difficulty in comprehending the various moods with which she met his narrative, the color changing in her cheeks, her supple form bending toward him, or leaning backward in the chair, her fingers clasping or unclasping in nervous attention. He began with Neb's report, repeating, word by word, as nearly as he could recollect, what had passed between Hawley and her father. He paused to inquire if she had ever heard the name Bartlett, but her reply was merely a negative shake of the head. When he described their missing the train, she was, apparently, not convinced as to the General's departure upon it, although finally agreeing that, if he really believed the report that the man sought was elsewhere, it would be characteristic of him to accept the first means of getting there. "If he only knew I was here," she exclaimed wearily, "it might be so different, but, oh, we are all of us just groping in the dark." Then Keith turned to his chance meeting with Miss Maclaire, and repeated carefully their conversation, dwelling particularly upon the few admissions which had slipped through her lips. These did not seem important to either, although they treasured them up and talked them over. Then, having exhausted the topic, silence fell between them, Keith asking the privilege of lighting a cigar. Hope, after watching him apply the match, thinking what a fine face he had as the ruddy flame brought it forth with the clearness of a cameo, leaned back, drawing aside the semblance to a lace curtain, and staring forth, without seeing, into the street.

Somehow it was hard for her to fully realize the situation, and how closely it affected her. The swiftly passing events, the complication arising so suddenly, apparently out of nothing, left her feeling as though she must surely awake from a dream. She could not comprehend what it was all about; the names Bartlett and Phyllis had no clear meaning, they represented nothing but shadows; and this other woman—this music hall singer—what could there be in common between them? Yet there must be something—something of vital importance to her father—something which had already cost her brother's life. That was the one thing which made it seem an actuality—which brought it home to her as a rugged fact. But for that—and Keith—Keith sitting there before her—she would have doubted it all. And yet even Keith had come into her life so suddenly, so unexpectedly, as to leave her dazed and uncertain. So strongly did this feeling grip her in the silence, that she extended her hand and touched him, as though to make sure of his actual presence.

"What is it, Hope?"

"Oh, nothing—nothing," her voice breaking in a little sob. "It is so silly, but I was just wondering if you were real—everything seems so impossible. I cannot bring my mind to grasp the situation."

He did not smile, but only took the groping hand into both of his own.

"I think I understand, little girl," he said gravely. "You are totally unused to such life. Almost without a moment's warning you have been plunged into a maelstrom of adventure, and are all confused. It is different with me—since the first shot at Sumter my life has been one of action, and adventure has grown to be the stimulus I need, and upon which I thrive. But I assure you," pressing the soft hand warmly, "I am real."

"Of course I know that; it makes me glad to know it. If I could only do something myself, and not just sit here, it would all become real enough to me."

She rose suddenly to her feet, clasping her hands together, her face changing with new animation.

"Why couldn't I? I am sure I could. Oh, Mr. Keith, it has just come to me how I can help."

He looked at her questioningly, thinking of her beauty rather than of what she said.

"Do—do I really appear so much like—like that woman?" she asked anxiously.

"Very much, indeed, excepting for the slight difference in age."

"That would never be noticed in the dark, or a poor light. Am I the same height?"

"Practically, yes."

"And my voice?—could you distinguish me from her by my voice?"

"I might; yet probably not, unless my suspicions were aroused. What is it you are thinking about?"

She took a deep breath, standing now directly facing him in the light.

"Of playing Miss Maclaire to-night," she said quickly. "Of taking her place, and learning what it is of so much importance Hawley has to report. Don't you think it might be done?"

The sheer audacity of this unexpected proposal left him speechless. He arose to his feet, gripping the back of the chair, almost doubting if he could have heard aright, his eyes searching the girl's face which was glowing with excitement. Of course he could not permit of her exposure to such a risk; the scheme was impracticable, absurd. But was it? Did it not offer a fair chance of success? And was not the possible result worthy the risk assumed? He choked back the earlier words of protest unuttered, puzzled as to what he had best say. A quick-witted resourceful woman might accomplish all she proposed.

"It looks so simple," she broke in impulsively, moving nearer him. "Don't you think I could do it? Would it be unwomanly?"

"The result, if accomplished, would abundantly justify the means, Hope," he acknowledged at last. "I was not hesitating on that account, but considering the risk you would incur."

"That would be so small—merely the short walk alone with him from the theatre to the hotel," she pleaded. "Once here it could make no difference if he did discover my identity, for there would be plenty of men near at hand to come to my defence. Oh, please say yes."

"If I do, then we must make the illusion perfect, and take as few chances of discovery as possible. I must learn exactly how the other dresses, and when she leaves the theatre. Fortunately for the success of your plan the Trocadero permits no one but performers to come behind the scenes, so that Hawley will be compelled to wait for the lady outside the stage door. I had better go at once, and see to these details."

"Yes," she said, her eyes sparkling with anticipation, "and I am so glad you are willing. I will be most discreet. You are not sorry I made the proposal?"

"Certainly not. At first it struck me as altogether wrong, but the more I think of it the stronger it appeals to me. It may reveal to us the whole conspiracy, and I cannot believe Hawley would venture upon any gross familiarity likely to cost him the good opinion of his ally. There is too much at stake. Wait here, Hope, and I will be back the very moment I learn all that is necessary."

A glance at the office clock convinced Keith that, in all probability, Miss Maclaire had not, as yet, departed for the scene of her evening triumph. Still, it could not be long before she would, and he lit a cigar, sitting down in a corner partially concealed by the clerk's desk to wait her appearance. This required longer than anticipated, and fearing lest he might have missed the departure entirely, he was about to question the busy Thomas, when he beheld Hawley enter hurriedly from the street and run up the stairs. He then had been the laggard. All the better, as he would now have no opportunity to unfold his tale to the lady, as it would be necessary for them to hurry to the theatre. Whatever the nature of the revelation it would have to wait until the walk home. The excitement of the adventure was already creeping into Keith's blood, his pulse quickening.

The two returned almost immediately, conclusively proving that Miss Maclaire, fully dressed for the street, had been awaiting the arrival of her gallant with some impatience. Hawley was busily explaining his delay as they came down the stairs, and paid little attention to the seemingly deserted office. Indeed, Miss Christie monopolized all his thoughts. With quick scrutiny the watcher noted the more conspicuous articles of apparel constituting her costume—the white mantilla thrown over her head, the neatly fitting blue dress, the light cape covering the shoulders—surely it would not be difficult to duplicate these, so as to pass muster under the dim light of the streets. Far enough in their rear to feel safe from observation he followed, noting with increased pleasure the rapidity with which they covered the required distance. Clearly Miss Christie was already nervous lest she have not sufficient time remaining in which to properly dress for her act, and there would be no exchange of confidences on the outward journey. Hawley left her, as Keith anticipated, at the stage entrance, the lady hastening within. Her escort strolled leisurely back to the front of the house, and finally, purchasing a ticket, entered, the performance already having begun.

Keith knew perfectly the arrangement of the theatre—the seats in front; tables all through the centre; a gallery filled with benches; a noisy orchestra beneath the stage; a crowded audience of men, with only here and there a scattered representative of the gentler sex; busy waiters dodging in and out among the tables, and down the aisles, filling orders for liquids from the nearby saloon. The air would be pungent with the odor of drink, thick with the fumes of tobacco, and noisy with voices, except as some special favorite on the stage won temporary attention. The Trocadero possessed but one redeeming feature—no doorway connected stage and auditorium, and the management brooked no interference with his artists. It had required some nerve to originally enforce this rule, together with a smart fight or two, but at this period it was acknowledged and respected. No sooner had Hawley vanished than Keith found occasion to enter into casual conversation with the door-keeper, asking a number of questions, and leaving impressed upon the mind of that astute individual the idea that he was dealing with a "gent" enamored of one of the stage beauties. A coin slipped quietly into the man's hand served to deepen this impression, and unlocked discreet lips otherwise sworn to secrecy. Out of much general information a little of real value was thus extracted—Miss Maclaire's act began at 9:45 and was over promptly at 10:10. It required about twenty minutes more for her to change again into street clothes, and she usually left the theatre immediately after, which would be about 10:30. Yes, there was a vestibule outside the stage door, and on bad nights, those waiting for the ladies could slip in there. But on such a night as this they generally hung around outside. No, there was no watchman, but the manager was frequently prowling around. He'd be busy, however, at 10:30, getting the stage ready for the "Flying Hermanns." Abundantly satisfied and resisting the door-keeper's professional suggestion that he'd better buy a ticket and take a look at the show, Keith slipped away, and hastened back to the hotel. The more he investigated the more feasible appeared the girl's plan, and he was now fully committed to it.



Chapter XXVIII. The Stage Door of the Trocadero



Hope discovered very little difficulty in duplicating the outer garments Keith reported Miss Maclaire as wearing. The colors, indeed, were not exactly the same, yet this difference was not sufficient to be noticeable at night by the eyes of a man who had no reason to suspect deceit. The girl was in a flutter of nervous excitement as she hastened about the room, donning her few requirements of masquerade, yet Keith noted with appreciation that she became perceptibly cooler as the moment of departure approached. With cheeks aflame and eyes sparkling, yet speaking with a voice revealing no falter, she pressed his arm and declared herself prepared for the ordeal. The face under the shadow of the mantilla was so arch and piquant, Keith could not disguise his admiration.

"Am I Christie Maclaire?" she asked laughingly.

"Sufficiently so to fool our friend," he returned, "but I am ready to swear that lady never looked so charming."

"A compliment, and spoken as though you really meant it."

"Have I not been honest enough with you in the past, to be credited with honesty now?" he protested, a little hurt by the bantering tone.

"Of course you have; I merely talk lightly to keep my courage up. You can have no idea how afraid I am."

"Then you are truly an actress, for you appear the picture of enjoyment. But we must go, or Hawley will be there before us, and thus spoil all our plans."

They passed out through the office together, seeing no one familiar to either, Hope keeping her face partially concealed. The east side of the street was less frequented than the other, having fewer saloons along its way, and they chose its darkness. As they advanced, the long habit of frontier life caused Keith to glance behind before they had progressed a block, and he was thus made aware that they were being followed. Conversing lightly, and without a word to alarm the girl, he yet managed to observe every movement of the dimly outlined figure which advanced with them, timing every motion to theirs. Long before they crossed the street to the Trocadero he was convinced there was no mistake—the fellow, whoever he might be, was trailing them. Keith smiled grimly to himself, resolving that, as soon as he had left the lady, he would teach the spy a lesson not soon to be forgotten.

They barely entered the outer circle of the Trocadero lights, noting a group of men thronging about the doors, and hearing the sound of the band within, and then turned swiftly down the narrow dark alley-way leading toward the stage entrance. Keith, having been there before, advanced confidently, but Hope, her heart beating wildly, clung to his arm, scarcely venturing a word in reply to his whispered assurances. Fortunately they encountered no one, and Keith, feeling cautiously in the dark, easily succeeded in locating the opening to the vestibule. Listening intently he became convinced that no one occupied the little shed. He had intended to remain with the girl until the time came for her to emerge, but the remembrance of that figure dogging them all the way from the hotel now caused a change of plan. He held her hand closely clasped in his.

"Now, Hope, I am going to leave you," he whispered, "and your own wit will have to carry you through. I know you will play your part all right, and it will be mine to wait for Christie, and give her some explanation of why Hawley failed to meet her as he promised. It will never do for her to suspect, until you time to learn all possible. You are not afraid?"

"Yes, I am," clinging to him, "but—but I am going through it just the same."

"The truest kind of courage, my girl. Now slip inside, but hold the door ajar. Hawley will certainly be here within ten minutes, and you must join him at once, or else the other might appear. You can judge as to its being him even in this darkness. Good-bye."

The longing to clasp her in his arms, to speak the language of his heart, was almost overwhelming, yet the memory of that figure slinking along behind them, and the brief time before Hawley's probable appearance, for he would leave the theatre at the conclusion of Miss Maclaire's act, restrained all demonstration. This was a moment for action, not for words of love; no delay should hazard the success of their undertaking. He heard the slight creak of the door as the girl slipped within the concealment of the vestibule, and then he glided away through the darkness with the stealthy silence of an Indian. There was no one in the alley-way, which was narrow and easily explored, but the glow from the front windows plainly revealed the shadow of a man near the entrance, and Keith slipped up toward him, hugging the side of the building for concealment, prepared to resort to harsh measures. As he reached out, gripping the astonished loiterer by the collar, the two stared at one another in surprise, and the gripping hand as instantly released its hold.

"You, Fairbain! What the devil does this mean? What are you spying on us for?"

Clearly taken aback, yet not greatly disturbed, his eyes showing pugnacious and his jaw set, the Doctor rubbed his throat where Keith's knuckles had left a red welt.

"Damn you, I think I'm the one to ask for an explanation," he growled. "She said she was not going with you, and now you are around here together at this hour. I had a right to know whether I was being played with like that."

"But, man, that was not Miss Maclaire I was with; it was Hope Waite. Come back here under the tent flap while I explain."

Fearful of the coming of Hawley he fairly dragged the portly figure of the bewildered Doctor with him, striving, by quickly spoken words, to make him comprehend the situation. Knowing previously something of the issues involved, it was not difficult to make Fairbain grasp the meaning of this present movement, yet his sympathies were at once enlisted upon the side of Miss Christie. He'd be damned if he would have any part in such a scheme—if she had a right to the money he'd help her get it—it was a cowardly trick, and he'd fight if necessary, to keep her from becoming a victim. His voice rose, his arms brandishing violently, his sentences snapping like rifle shots. Keith angered, and fearful of a discovery which would leave Hope exposed, realized the futility of discussion and turned to physical force. Grasping the gesticulating man with both hands, he flung him backward and dragged him into the empty tent, kneeling on him as he throttled him to the earth.

"Now, Doctor, you listen to me," he said sternly, "I'm through arguing. I hate to treat you like this, for you are my friend, but I'll not stand for interference here. Do you get that, you old fool? Lie still until I get through! I respect your feelings toward Miss Maclaire. She is a good girl, and I hope to heaven you get her if you want her. But you never will if you permit this affair to go on. Yes, I know what I am talking about. In all that Hope and I do we are serving you and Christie,—our only fight is with 'Black Bart' Hawley. Stop being a bullet-headed old fool, Fairbain, and understand this thing. Lie still, I tell you, and hear me out! Hawley is a liar, a thief, and a swindler. There is a swindle in this thing somewhere, and he hopes to pull out a big sum of money from it. He is merely using Christie to pull his own chestnuts out of the fire. She is innocent; we realize that, but this fellow is going to ruin the girl unless we succeed in exposing him. He's not only involving her in his criminal conspiracy, but he's making love to her; he's teaching her to love him. That's part of his scheme, no doubt, for then she will be so much easier handled. I tell you, Fairbain, your only chance to ever win the interest of Christie Maclaire is to help us down this fellow Hawley. Yes, you can sit up; I reckon you're beginning to see clearer, ain't you?"

Keith drew aside the flap of the tent to glance without, the light falling on Fairbain's face as he struggled to a sitting posture. He had had a new thought driven into him, yet failed to entirely grasp its significance.

"But, Jack," he asked, still half angry, "how about the girl? Hasn't she any right to this money?"

"I don't know," honestly, "we don't any of us know, but whatever she has the right to she is going to get. You can bet on that, old man. We're bucking Hawley not Christie Maclaire—get that into your head. He hasn't any right, that's certain, for he murdered and stole to get the papers—be quiet! Here the fellow comes now!"

They peered out together through the convenient tent flap, Fairbain scarcely less interested than the other, already dimly comprehending that his truly dangerous rival was the gambler, and that he could best serve the lady by helping to prove to her the real character of that individual. He was still blindly groping in the haze, yet out of Keith's sharp, stinging words there had come to him a guiding light. The latter gripped his arm in restraint.

"Easy, old man, easy—let him pass."

Hawley turned into the alley whistling, evidently well pleased with the situation and anticipating other delights awaiting his coming. The glow of the Trocadero's lights served, an instant, to reveal his face, shaded by the broad brim of his hat, and then he vanished into the dark. Keith leaning far out, yet keeping well within the shadows, heard the faint creak of the vestibule door and the soft murmur of distant voices. Then he drew back suddenly, his hand again grasping Fairbain. Two figures—those of a man and woman—emerged into the dim light, and as quickly disappeared. Apparently her hand was upon his arm, and he was bending down so as to gain a glimpse of the face partially concealed by the folds of the mantilla. Only a word or two reached them, a little laugh, and the woman's voice:

"Why, of course I hurried; you said you had something of such importance to tell me."

"Fairbain," spoke Keith, his lips almost at the ear of the other. "That was Hope, all right, and she has got him going already. Now, man, will you help us out?"

"I? How?"

"Go back there, and meet Miss Maclaire. I don't care where you take her—lunch, anywhere; only keep her from the hotel as long as possible. You can do it far better than I, for she will not suspect you of any interest in this affair. Tell her any lie you can think up on account of Hawley's absence. Good Lord, old man, can't you see this is your chance; go in and win."

Fairbain struggled to his feet, still a bit dazed and uncertain, yet tempted by the opportunity.

"You're perfectly sure, Keith, this isn't anything that will hurt the girl?"

"Sure! Of course I am. It's just Hawley I'm gunning after. For God's sake, haven't you got that clear yet?"

"I—I reckon I'm an old fool, Jack," admitted the Doctor regretfully, "and when an old fool is in love he hasn't got any sense left. Anyhow I'll do what you want me to now. Where are you going?"

"To watch those others. There is no knowing what play Hawley might try to pull off, and I want to keep within gun-shot of him. Hurry up, man; that vestibule door creaked just then."

He shoved him down the dark alley, and dodged back himself across the front of the tent out into the street. There was a crowd of men in front of the Trocadero, but the couple he sought were nowhere in sight.



Chapter XXIX. By Force of Arms



With her heart throbbing fiercely, Hope clung to the outer door of the vestibule endeavoring to see a little of what was transpiring without. About her was dense darkness, and she dare not explore the surroundings. Behind could be heard, through what must have been a thin partition, the various distractions of the stage, shifting scenery, music, shuffling feet, voices, and the occasional sound of applause. The girl had nerved herself to the encounter with Hawley but this waiting here in darkness and uncertainty tried her to the uttermost. If some one should venture out that way how could she excuse her presence or explain her purpose? She found herself trembling in every limb from nervous fear, startled by every strange sound. Would the man never come? Surely Christie herself must be ready to depart by this time.

Almost prepared to flee before the terrors thus conjured up within her mind, they left her as if by magic the moment her straining eyes distinguished the approach of a dim figure without. She could not tell who it was, only that it was the unmistakable form of a man, and that he was whistling softly to himself. It might not prove to be the gambler, but she must accept the chance, for flesh and blood could stand the strain of waiting no longer. Yet she was not conscious of fear, only of exultation, as she stepped forth into the open, her blood again circulating freely in her veins. At the slight creak of the door the man saw her, his whistle ceasing, his hat lifted. Instantly she recognized him as Hawley, her heart leaping with the excitement of encounter.

"Why, hullo, Christie," he said familiarly, "I thought I was early, and expected a ten minutes' wait. I came out as soon as you left the stage."

"Oh, I can dress in a jiffy when there is any cause for hurry," Hope responded, permitting herself to drift under his guidance. "Are you disappointed? Would you prefer to commune with nature?"

"Well, I should say not," drawing her hand through his arm, and then patting it with his own. "I have seen about all I care to of nature, but not of Christie Maclaire."

"You may learn to feel the same regarding her," Hope answered, afraid to encourage the man, yet eagerly fearful lest she fail to play her part aright.

"Not the slightest danger," laughing lightly, and pressing her arm more closely against his body. "Although I must confess you exhibited some temper when I was late to-night."

"Did I not have occasion to? A woman should never be kept waiting, especially if her engagement be imperative."

"Oh, I am not finding any fault, you little spitfire. I like you all the better because you fight. But the trouble was, Christie, you simply jumped on me without even asking how it occurred. You took it for granted I was late on purpose to spite you."

"Well, weren't you?" and the girl glanced inquiringly up into his face, as they passed out of the alley into the light of the Trocadero's windows. "You certainly acted that way."

"No, I did not; but you wouldn't listen, and besides I had no time then to explain. There's a lot happened this afternoon I want to tell you about. Will you give me time to talk with you?"

"Why, of course," surprised at the question, yet full of eagerness. "Why should you ask that?"

"Because I want you alone where no one can overhear a syllable. I'm afraid of that damned hotel. You never know who is in the next room, and the slightest whisper travels from one end to the other. That is one way in which Keith got onto our deal—he had a room next to Willoughby and Scott, and overheard them talking. I'm not going to take any more chances. Will you go to 'Sheeny Joe's' with me?"

She drew back from him.

"'Sheeny Joe's'? You mean the saloon near the depot?"

"Sure; what's the use of being so squeamish? You sing and dance to a saloon crowd, don't you? Oh, I know you're a good girl, Christie, and all that. I'm not ranking you with these fly-by-nights around here. But there's no reason that I can see why you should shy so at a saloon. Besides, you won't see any one. Joe has got some back rooms where we can be alone, and have a bite to eat while we're talking. What do you say?"

"Oh, I would rather not," Hope faltered, bewildered by this unexpected request, already half-tempted to break away and run. "Really I—I don't want to go there."

Hawley was evidently surprised at this refusal, naturally supposing from her life that Miss Maclaire's scruples would be easily overcome. This obstinacy of the girl aroused his anger.

"You women beat the devil," he ejaculated, gruffly, "pretending to be so damn particular. Maybe you'd rather stand out there on the prairie and talk?" with a sweep of his hand around the horizon.

"Yes, I would," catching desperately at the straw. "I'm not afraid of you; I'm not blaming you at all, only I—I don't want to go to 'Sheeny Joe's.'"

He looked at her, puzzled at her attitude, and yet somewhat reassured by her expression of confidence. Oh, well, what was the difference? It might be better to let her have her own way, and the change would not materially interfere with his plans. Of course, it would be pleasanter sitting together at one of Joe's tables, but he could talk just as freely out yonder under the stars. Besides, it might be as well now to humor the girl.

"All right, Christie," his voice regaining its pleasant tone. "You shall have your way this time. There is too much at stake for us to quarrel over this."

Frightened, yet not daring to resist or exhibit the least reluctance, she clung to his arm, and permitted him to lead her to the right down a dark passage and out into the open land beyond. He had to feel his way carefully, and scarcely spoke, yet proceeded as though the passage was reasonably familiar and he had some definite point in view. She answered in monosyllables, now thoroughly regretful of having permitted herself to drift into this position, yet not in the least knowing how to extricate herself. Hawley took everything for granted, her very silence convincing him of her acquiescence. With throbbing pulse, Hope felt the small revolver hidden within her dress, undoing a button so that, in emergency, she might grasp it more quickly. Hawley felt the movement, the trembling of her arm.

"You are afraid, just the same," he said, pressing her to him lover-like. "Darkness always gets on a woman's nerves."

"Yes, that and loneliness," resenting his familiarity.

"Do we need to go any farther? Surely, we are alone here."

"Only a few steps; the ravine is yonder, and we can sit down on the rocks. I want to smoke, and we will be entirely out of sight there."

He helped her down the rather sharp declivity until both were thoroughly concealed below the prairie level. Feeling about with his hands he found the surface of a smooth rock, and seated her upon it. Then a match flared, casting an instant's gleam across his face as he lighted his cigar. Blacker than ever the night shut down about them, and he groped for a seat beside her. She could perceive just one star peering through a rift of cloud, and in her nostrils was the pungent odor of tobacco. With a little shiver of disgust she drew slightly away from him, dreading what was to come. One thing alone she felt was in her favor—however familiar Hawley attempted to be, he was evidently not yet sufficiently sure of Miss Maclaire to become entirely offensive. She might not have frowned at his love-making, but apparently he had not yet progressed sufficiently far in her good graces to venture to extremes. Hope pressed her lips together, determined to resist any further approach of the man. However, his earliest words were a relief.

"I reckon, Christie," he said slowly, between puffs on his cigar, the lighted end of which faintly illumined his face, "you've got the idea I have brought you out here to make love. Lord knows I'd like to well enough, but just now there's more important matters on hand. Fact is, my girl, we're up against a little back-set, and have got to make a shift in our plans—a mighty quick shift, too," he added, almost savagely.

"I—I don't think I understand."

"No, of course, you don't. You imagine all we've got to do in a matter of this kind is to step into the nearest court, and draw the money. One trouble is, our evidence isn't complete—we've got to find that woman who brought you up."

"Oh!" said Hope, not knowing what else to say.

"Yes," he went on, apparently satisfied with her exclamation. "Of course, I know she's dead, or at least, you say so, but we haven't got enough proof without her—not the way old Waite promises to fight your claim—and so we've got to hunt for a substitute. Do you happen to know any old woman about the right age who would make affidavit for you? She probably wouldn't have to go on the stand at all. Waite will cave in as soon as he knows we've got the evidence."

He waited for an answer, but she hardly knew what to say. Then she remembered that Keith insisted that Miss Maclaire had no conception that there was any fraud in her claim.

"No, I know no one. But what do you mean? I thought everything was straight? That there was no question about my right to inherit?"

"Well, there isn't, Christie," pulling fiercely on his cigar. "But the courts are particular; they have got to have the whole thing in black and white. I thought all along I could settle the entire matter with Waite outside, but the old fool won't listen to reason. I saw him twice to-day."

"Twice?" surprise wringing the word from her.

"Yes; thought I had got him off on a false scent and out of the way, the first time, but he turned up again like a bad penny. What's worse, he's evidently stumbled on to a bit of legal information which makes it safer for us to disappear until we can get the links of our chain forged. He's taken the case into court already, and the sheriff is here tryin' to find me so as to serve the papers. I've got to skip out, and so've you."

"I?" rising to her feet, indignantly. "What have I done to be frightened over?"

He laughed, but not pleasantly.

"Oh, hell, Christie, can't you understand? Old Waite is after you the same way he is me. It'll knock our whole case if he can get you into court before our evidence is ready. All you know is what I have told you—that's straight enough—but we've got to have proof. I can get it in a month, but he's got hold of something which gives him a leverage. I don't know what it is—maybe it's just a bluff—but the charge is conspiracy, and he's got warrants out. There is nothing for us to do but skip."

"But my clothes; my engagement?" she urged, feeling the insistent earnestness of the man, and sparring for delay. "Why, I cannot go. Besides, if the sheriff is hunting us, the trains will be watched."

"Do you suppose I am fool enough to risk the trains?" he exclaimed, roughly, plainly losing patience. "Not much; horses and the open plains for us, and a good night the start of them. They will search for me first, and you'll never be missed until you fail to show up at the Trocadero. Never mind the clothes; they can be sent after us."

"To-night!" she cried, awakening to the immediate danger, and rising to her feet. "You urge me to fly with you to-night?—now?"

"Sure, don't be foolish and kick up a row. The horses are here waiting just around the end of the ravine."

She pressed her hands to her breast, shrinking away from him.

"No! No! I will not go!" she declared, indignantly. "Keep back! Don't touch me!"

Hawley must have expected the resistance, for with a single movement he grasped her even as she turned to fly, pinning her arms helplessly to her side, holding her as in a vice.

"Oh, but you will, my beauty," he growled. "I thought you might act up and I'm ready. Do you think I am fool enough to leave you here alone to be pumped dry? It is a big stake I'm playing after, girl, and I am not going to lose it through the whims of a woman. If you won't go pleasantly, then you'll go by force. Keep still, you tigress! Do you want me to choke you?"

She struggled to break loose, twisting and turning, but the effort was useless. Suddenly he whistled sharply. There was the sound of feet scrambling down the path, and the frightened woman perceived the dim outlines of several approaching men. She gave one scream, and Hawley released his grip on her arms to grasp her throat.

She jerked away, half-stumbling backward over a rock. The revolver, carried concealed in her dress, was in her hand. Mad with terror, scarcely knowing what she did, she pulled the trigger. In the flash she saw one man throw up his hands and go down. The next instant the others were upon her.



Chapter XXX. In Christie's Room



Keith swept his glance up and down the street without results. Surely, Hawley and his companion could not have disappeared so suddenly. They had turned to the right, he was certain as to that, and he pushed through the crowd of men around the theatre entrance, and hastened to overtake them. He found nothing to overtake—nowhere along that stretch of street, illumined by window lights, was there any sign of a man and woman walking together. He stopped bewildered, staring blindly about, failing utterly to comprehend this mysterious vanishing. What could it mean? What had happened? How could they have disappeared so completely during that single moment he had waited to speak to Fairbain? The man's heart beat like a trip-hammer with apprehension, a sudden fear for Hope taking possession of him. Surely the girl would never consent to enter any of those dens along the way, and Hawley would not dare resort to force in the open street. The very thought seemed preposterous, and yet, with no other supposition possible, he entered these one after the other in hasty search, questioning the inmates sharply, only to find himself totally baffled—Hawley and Hope had vanished as though swallowed by the earth. He explored dark passage-ways between the scattered buildings, rummaging about recklessly, but came back to the street again without reward.

Could they have gone down the other side, in the deeper shadows, and thus reached the hotel more quickly than it seemed to him possible? There was hardly a chance that this could be true, and yet Keith grasped at it desperately, cursing himself for having wasted time. Five minutes later, breathless, almost speechless with anxiety, he startled the clerk.

"Has Miss Waite come in? Miss Hope Waite?"

"Blamed if I know," retorted the other, indifferently. "Can't for the life of me tell those two females apart. One of them passed through 'bout ten minutes ago; Doc Fairbain was with her. Another party just went upstairs hunting Miss Maclaire, and as they haven't come down, I reckon it must have been her—anything wrong?"

"I'm not sure yet," shortly. "Who was this other person?"

"Old fellow with white hair and whiskers—swore like a pirate—had the sheriff along with him."

It came to Keith in a flash—it was Waite. Perhaps Christie knew. Perhaps the General knew. Certainly something of importance was crystallizing in the actress' room which might help to explain all else. He rushed up the stairs, barely waiting to rap once at the closed door before he pressed it open. The sight within held him silent, waiting opportunity to blurt out his news. Here, also, was tragedy, intense, compelling, which for the instant seemed to even overshadow the fate of the girl he loved. There were three men present, and the woman. She stood clutching the back of a chair, white-faced and open-eyed, with Fairbain slightly behind her, one hand grasping her arm, the other clinched, his jaw set pugnaciously. Facing these two was Waite, and a heavily built man wearing a brown beard, closely trimmed.

"You'd better acknowledge it," Waite snapped out, with a quick glance at the newcomer. "It will make it all the easier for you. I tell you this is the sheriff, and we've got you both dead to rights."

"But," she urged, "why should I be arrested? I have done nothing."

"You're an adventuress—a damn adventuress—Hawley's mistress, probably—a—"

"Now, see here, Waite," and Fairbain swung himself forward, "you drop that. Miss Maclaire is my friend, and if you say another word I'll smash you, sheriff or no sheriff."

Waite glared at him.

"You old fool," he snorted, "what have you got to do with this?"

"I've got this to do with it, you'll find—the woman is to be treated with respect or I'll blow your damned obstinate head off."

The sheriff laid his hand on Waite's shoulder.

"Come," he said, firmly, "this is no way to get at it. We want to know certain facts, and then we can proceed lawfully. Let me question the woman."

The two older men still faced one another belligerently, but Keith saw Christie draw the doctor back from between her and the sheriff.

"You may ask me anything you please," she announced, quietly. "I am sure these gentlemen will not fight here in my room."

"Very well, Miss Maclaire. It will require only a moment. How long have you known this man Hawley?"

"Merely a few days—since I arrived in Sheridan."

"But you were in communication with him before that?"

The pleasant voice and quiet demeanor of the sheriff seemed to yield the girl confidence and courage.

"Yes, he had written me two or three letters."

"You met him here then by appointment?"

"He was to come to Sheridan, and explain to me more fully what his letters had only hinted at."

"You possessed no previous knowledge of his purpose?"

"Only the barest outline—details were given me later."

"Will you tell us briefly exactly what Hawley told you?"

The girl's bewildered eyes wandered from face to face, then returned to the waiting sheriff.

"May—may I sit down?" she asked.

"Most certainly; and don't be afraid, for really we wish to be your friends."

She sank down into the chair, and even Keith could see how her slender form trembled. There was a moment's silence.

"Believe me, gentlemen," she began, falteringly, "if there is any fraud, any conspiracy, I have borne no conscious part in it. Mr. Hawley came to me saying a dying man had left with him certain papers, naming one, Phyllis Gale, as heiress to a very large estate in North Carolina, left by her grandfather in trust. He said the girl had been taken West, when scarcely two years old, by her father in a fit of drunken rage, and then deserted by him in St. Louis."

"You—you saw the papers?" Waite broke in.

"Yes, those that Hawley had; he gave them to me to keep for him." She crossed to her trunk, and came back, a manilla envelope in her hand. Waite opened it hastily, running his eyes over the contents.

"The infernal scoundrel!" he exclaimed, hotly. "These were stolen from me at Carson City."

"Let me see them." The sheriff ran them over, merely glancing at the endorsements.

"Just as you represented, Waite," he said, slowly. "A copy of the will, your commission as guardian, and memoranda of identification. Well, Miss Maclaire, how did you happen to be so easily convinced that you were the lost girl?"

"Mr. Hawley brought me a picture which he said was of this girl's half-sister; the resemblance was most startling. This, with the fact that I have never known either father or mother or my real name, and that my earlier life was passed in St. Louis, sufficed to make me believe he must be right."

"You—you—" Waite choked, leaning forward.

"You don't know your real name?"

"No, I do not," her lips barely forming the words. "The woman who brought me up never told me."

"Who—who was the woman?"

"A Mrs. Raymond—Sue Raymond—she was on the stage, and died in Texas—San Antonio, I think."

Waite swore audibly, his eyes never once deserting the girl's face.

"Hawley told you to say that?"

"No, he did not," she protested warmly. "It was never even mentioned between us—at least, not Sue Raymond's name. What difference can that make?"

He stepped forward, one hand flung out, and Fairbain sprang forward instantly between them, mistaking the action.

"Hands off there, Waite," he commanded sternly. "Whatever she says goes."

"You blundering old idiot," the other exploded. "I'm not going to hurt her; stand aside, will you!"

He reached the startled girl, thrust aside the dark hair combed low over the neck, swung her about toward the light, and stared at a birthmark behind her ear. No one spoke, old Waite seemingly stricken dumb, the woman shrinking away from him as though she feared he was crazed.

"What is it?" asked the sheriff, sternly.

Slowly Waite turned about and faced him, running the sleeve of his coat across his eyes. He appeared dazed, confounded.

"My God, it's all right," he said, with a choke in the throat. "She's—she's the girl."

Christie stared at him, her lips parted, unable to grasp what it all meant.

"You mean I—I am actually Phyllis Gale? That—that there is no mistake?"

He nodded, not yet able to put It more clearly into words. She swayed as though about to faint, and Fairbain caught her, but she slipped through his arms, and fell upon her knees, her face buried in her hands upon the chair.

"Oh, thank God," she sobbed, "thank God! I know who I am! I know who I am!"



Chapter XXXI. The Search for the Missing



The note of unrestrained joy of relief in the woman's voice rang through the room, stilling all else, and causing those who heard to forget for an instant the sterner purpose of their gathering. Fairbain bent over her, like a fat guardian angel, patting her shoulder, her eyes so blurred with tears as to be practically sightless, yet still turned questioningly upon Waite. The sheriff was first to recover speech, and a sense of duty.

"Then this lets Miss Maclaire out of the conspiracy charge," he said, gravely, "but it doesn't make it any brighter for Hawley so far as I can see—there's a robbery charge against him if nothing else. Any one here know where the fellow is?"

For a moment no one answered, although Keith took a step forward, reminded instantly of Hope's predicament. Before he could speak, however, Christie looked up, with swift gesture pushing back her loosened hair.

"He was to have met me at the theatre to-night," she said, her voice trembling, "but was not there when I came out; he—he said he had important news for me."

"And failed to show up—did he send no message?"

"Doctor Fairbain was waiting for me instead. He said that Mr. Hawley was called suddenly out of town."

The eyes of the sheriff turned to Fairbain, whose face grew redder than usual, as he shifted his gaze toward Keith.

"That was a lie," he confessed, lamely. "I—I was told to say that."

"Just a moment, Sheriff," and Keith stood before them, his voice clear and convincing. "My name is Keith, and I have unavoidably been mixed up in this affair from the beginning. Just now I can relieve the doctor of his embarrassment. Miss Hope Waite and I have been associated together in an effort to solve this mystery. This evening, taking advantage of the remarkable resemblance existing between herself and Miss Maclaire, Miss Hope decided upon a mask—"

"What's that," Waite broke in excitedly. "Is Hope here?"

"Yes, has been for a week; we've had all the police force of Sheridan hunting you."

The old man stared at the speaker, open-mouthed, and muttered something about Fort Hays, but Keith, paying little attention to him, hurried on with his story.

"As I say, she decided upon impersonating Christie here, hoping in this way to learn more regarding Hawley's plans. We had discovered that the two were to meet after the evening performance at the stage door of the Trocadero. I escorted Hope there, dressed as near like Miss Maclaire as possible, and left her inside the vestibule waiting for 'Black Bart' to appear. At the head of the alley I ran into Fairbain, told him something of the circumstances, and persuaded him to escort Miss Christie back to the hotel. He was not very hard to persuade. Well, Hawley came, and Hope met him; they went out of the alley-way together arm in arm, talking pleasantly, and turned this way toward the hotel. The doctor and I both saw and heard them. I was delayed not to exceed two minutes, speaking a final word to Fairbain, and when I reached the street they had disappeared. I have hunted them everywhere without finding a trace—I have even been through the resorts. She has not returned to the hotel, and I burst in upon you here hoping that Miss Maclaire might have some information."

She shook her head, and Waite, glaring impotently at the two of them, swore sharply.

"Good God, man! my girl! Hope, alone with that damn villain. Come on, Sheriff; we've got to find her. Wait though!" and he strode almost menacingly across the room. "First, I want to know who the devil you are?"

Keith straightened up, looking directly into the fierce questioning eyes.

"I have told you my name—Jack Keith," he replied, quietly. "Doctor Fairbain knows something of me, but for your further information I will add that when we met before I was Captain Keith, Third Virginia Cavalry, and bearing despatches from Longstreet to Stonewall Jackson."

The gruff old soldier, half-crazed by the news of his daughter's peril, the gleam of his eyes still revealing uncontrolled temper, stared at the younger face fronting him; then slowly he held out his hand.

"Keith—Keith," he repeated, as though bringing back the name with an effort. "By God, that's so—old Jefferson Keith's boy—killed at Antietam. And you know Hope?"

"Yes, General."

He looked about as though dazed, and the sheriff broke in not unkindly.

"Well, Waite, if we are going to search for your daughter we better be at it. Come on, all of you; Miss Maclaire will be safe enough here alone."

He took hold of Keith's arm, questioning him briefly as they passed down the hall. On the stairs the latter took his turn, still confused by what he had just heard.

"Who is Miss Maclaire?" he asked.

"Phyllis Gale."

"Of course, but who is Phyllis Gale? What has she to do with General Waite? His daughter has told me she never heard of any one by that name."

"Well, Keith, the old man has never told me very much; he's pretty close-mouthed, except for swearing, but I've read his papers, and picked up a point or two. I reckon the daughter, Miss Hope, maybe never heard a word about it, but the boy—the one that was shot—must have stumbled onto the story and repeated it to Hawley. That's what set that fellow going. It seems Mrs. Waite's maiden name was Pierpont, and when she was seventeen years old she was married to the son of a rich North Carolina planter. The fellow was a drunken, dissolute good-for-nothing. They had a daughter born—this Phyllis—and when the child was three years old her father, in a fit of drunken rage, ran away, and to spite his wife took the little girl with him. All efforts to trace them failed, and the mother finally secured a divorce and, two years later, married Willis Waite. Waite, of course, knew these facts, but probably they were never told to the children. When the father of Mrs. Waite's first husband died, he left all his large property to his grandchild, providing she could be found and identified within a certain time, failing which the property was to be distributed among certain designated charities. Waite was named sole administrator. Well, the old man took as much interest in it as though it was his own girl, but made mighty little progress. He did discover that the father had taken the child to St. Louis and left her there with a woman named Raymond, but after the woman died the girl completely disappeared."

"Then Miss Maclaire is Hope Waite's half-sister?"

"That's the way it looks now."

"And Hawley merely happened to stumble on to the right party?"

"Sure; it's clear enough how that came about. The boy told him about the lost heiress his father was searching after, and showed him his sister's picture. 'Black Bart' instantly recognized her resemblance to Christie Maclaire, and thought he saw a good chance for some easy money. He needed the papers, however, to ascertain exactly the terms of the will, and what would be necessary for the identification. He never intended to go into court, but hoped to either get Waite out of the way, or else convince him that Christie was the girl, relying on her gratitude for his profits. When Waite played into his hands by coming to Carson City, the chance was too good to be lost. I'm not sure he meant to kill him, but he did mean to have those papers at any cost. Probably you know the rest—the girl was easy, because she was so ignorant of her parentage, and nothing prevented Hawley from winning except that Waite got mad and decided to fight. That knocked over the whole thing."

They were outside now, and the first touch of the cool night air, the first glance up and down the noisy street, brought Keith to himself, his mind ready to grapple with the problem of Hope's disappearance. It seemed to him he had already looked everywhere, yet there was nothing to do except to continue the search, only more systematically. The sheriff assumed control—clear headed, and accustomed to that sort of thing—calling in Hickock and his deputies to assist, and fairly combing the town from one end to the other. Not a rat could have slipped unobserved through the net he dragged down that long street, or its intersecting alleys—but it was without result; nowhere was there found a trace of either the gambler or his companion.

They dug into saloons, bagnios, dance-halls, searching back rooms and questioning inmates; they routed out every occupant of the hotel, invaded boarding houses, and explored shacks and tents, indifferent to the protests of those disturbed,—but without result. They found several who knew Hawley, others who had seen the two together passing by the lighted windows of the Trocadero, but beyond that—nothing. Convinced, at last, that the parties sought were not alive in Sheridan, and beginning to fear the worst, the searchers separated, and began spreading forth over the black surrounding prairie, and by the light of lanterns seeking any semblance of trail. There was no lack of volunteers for this work, but it was daylight before the slightest clue presented itself. Keith, with the sheriff and two or three others, had groped their way outward until, with the first flush of dawn, they found themselves at the opening of a small rocky ravine, near the foot of "Boots Hill." Peering down into its still shadowed depths, they discerned what appeared like a body lying there motionless. Keith sprang down beside it, and turned the rigid form over until the dead face was revealed in the wan light—it was that of the red moustached Scott. He staggered back at the recognition, barely able to ejaculate.

"Here, Sheriff! This is one of Hawley's men!"

The sheriff was bending instantly above the corpse, searching for the truth.

"You know the fellow?"

"Yes, his name was Scott."

"Well, he's been dead some hours, at least six I should say; shot just above the eye, and good Heavens! look here, Keith, at the size of this bullet wound; that's no man's gun in this country—no more than a '32' I'd say."

"Miss Waite had a small revolver. She must have shot the fellow. But why did they leave the body here to be discovered?"

The sheriff arose to his feet, prowling about in the brightening glow of the dawn.

"They were in a hurry to get away, and knew he wouldn't be found before morning. A six hours' start means a good deal. They did drag him back out of sight—look here. This was where the struggle took place, and here is where the man fell," tracing it out upon the ground. "The girl put up a stiff fight, too—see where they dragged her up the path. From the footprints there must have been half a dozen in the party. Get back out of the way, Sims, while I follow their trail."

It was plain enough, now they had daylight to assist them, and led around the edge of the hill. A hundred feet away they came to where horses had been standing, the trampled sod evidencing they must have been there for some considerable time. Keith and the sheriff circled out until they finally struck the trail of the party, which led forth southwest across the prairie.

"Seven horses, one being led light," said the former. "That was Scott's, probably."

"That's the whole story," replied the sheriff, staring off toward the bare horizon, "and the cusses have at least six hours the start with fresh horses." He turned around. "Well, boys, that takes 'em out of my baliwick, I reckon. Some of the rest of you will have to run that gang down."



Chapter XXXII. Fairbain and Christie



Dr. Fairbain had originally joined the searching party, fully as eager as Keith himself to run down the renegade Hawley, but after an hour of resultless effort, his entire thought shifted to the woman they had left alone at the hotel. He could not, as yet, fully grasp the situation, but he remained loyal to the one overpowering truth that he loved Christie Maclaire. Fairbain's nature was rough, original, yet loyal to the core. He had lived all his life long in army camps, and upon the frontier, and his code of honor was extremely simple. It never once occurred to him that Christie's profession was not of the highest, or that her life and associations in any way unfitted her for the future. To his mind she was the one and only woman. His last memory of her, as the little party of men filed out of that room, haunted him until he finally dropped out of the search, and drifted back toward the hotel.

It was a late hour, yet it was hardly likely the woman had retired. Her excitement, her interest in the pursuit, would surely prevent that; moreover, he was certain he saw a light still burning in her room, as he looked up from the black street below. Nevertheless he hesitated, uncertain of his reception. Bluff, emphatic, never afraid to face a man in his life, his heart now beat fiercely as he endeavored to muster the necessary courage. Far down the dark street some roysterer fired a shot, and sudden fear lest he might be sought after professionally sent the doctor hurriedly within, and up the stairs. He stood, just outside her door, quaking like a child, the perspiration beading his forehead, but a light streamed through the transom, and he could plainly hear movements within. At last, in a sudden spasm of courage, he knocked softly. Even in that noisy spot she heard instantly, opening the door without hesitation, and standing fully dressed within. She was no longer a discouraged, sobbing girl, but an aroused, intent woman, into whose pathetic, lonely life there had come a new hope. She appeared younger, fairer, with the light shimmering in her hair and her eyes smiling welcome.

"Oh, Doctor," and her hands were thrust out towards him, "I am glad you have come. Somehow, I thought you would, and I have wanted so to talk to someone—to you."

"To me! Do you really mean that, Miss Christie?"

"Yes, I really mean that, you great bear of a man," and the girl laughed lightly, dragging him into the room, and closing the door. "Why, who else could I expect to come to-night? You were the only one really good to me. You—you acted as if you believed in me all the time—"

"I did, Christie; you bet I did," broke in the delighted doctor, every nerve tingling. "I'd 'a' cleaned out that whole gang if you'd only said so, but I reckon now it was better to let them tell all they knew. It was like a thunder storm clearing the atmosphere."

"Oh, it was, indeed! Now I know who I am—who I am! Isn't that simply glorious? Sit down, Doctor Fairbain, there in the big chair where I can see your face. I want to talk, talk, talk; I want to ask questions, a thousand questions; but it wouldn't do any good to ask them of you, would it? You don't know anything about my family, do you?"

"Not very much, I am afraid, only that you have got an almighty pretty half-sister," admitted the man, emphatically, "and old Waite possesses the vilest temper ever given a human being. He's no blood kin to you, though."

"No, but he is awfully good underneath, isn't he?"

"Got a heart of pure gold, old Waite. Why, I've seen him cry like a baby over one of his men that got hurt."

"Have you known him, then, for a long while?"

"Ever since the Spring of '61. I was brigaded with him all through the war, and had to cut a bullet or so out of his hide before it ended. If there was ever a fight, Willis Waite was sure to get his share. He could swear some then, but he's improved since, and I reckon now he could likely claim the championship."

"Did—did you know my mother also?" and Christie leaned forward, her eyes suddenly grown misty. "I haven't even the slightest memory of her."

The doctor's heart was tender, and he was swift to respond, reaching forth and grasping the hand nearest him. He had made love before, yet somehow this was different; he felt half afraid of this woman, and it was a new sensation altogether, and not unpleasant.

"I saw her often enough in those days, but not since. She was frequently in camp, a very sweet-faced woman; you have her eyes and hair, as I remember. Waite ought to have recognized you at first sight. By Heavens! that was what made me so internally mad, the mulish obstinacy of the old fool. Your mother used to come to the hospital tent, too; one of the best nurses I ever saw. I thought she was a beauty then, but she's some older by this time," he paused regretfully. "You see, I'm no spring chicken, myself."

Her eyes were upon his face, a slight flush showing in either cheek, and she made no effort to withdraw her imprisoned hand.

"You are just a nice age," with firm conviction. "Boys are tiresome, and I think a little gray in the hair is an improvement. Oh, you mustn't imagine I say this just to please you—I have always thought so, since—well, since I grew up. Besides, fleshy men generally look young, because they are so good natured, perhaps. How old are you, Doctor?"

"It isn't the gray hairs I mind, either," he admitted hesitatingly, "but I'm too darned bald-headed. Oh, I ain't so old, for I was only thirty-five when the war broke out. I was so thin then I could hardly cast a shadow. I've changed some since," casting his eyes admiringly downward, "and got quite a figure. I was forty-three last month."

"That isn't old; that's just right."

"I've been afraid you looked on me as being an old fogy!"

"I should say not," indignantly. "Why should you ever think that?"

"Well, there were so many young fellows hanging about."

"Who?"

"Oh, Keith, and Hawley, and that bunch of officers from the fort; you never had any time to give me."

She laughed again, her fingers tightening in their clasp on his hand.

"Why, how foolish; Hawley is older than you are, and I was only playing with Keith. Surely you must know that now. And as to the officers, they were just fun. You see, in my profession, one has to be awfully nice to everybody."

"But didn't you really care for Hawley?" he insisted, bluntly probing for facts.

"He—he interested me," admitted the girl, hesitatingly, her eyes darkening with sudden anger. "He lied and I believed him—I would have believed any one who came with such a story. Oh, Dr. Fairbain," and she clung to him now eagerly, "you cannot realize how hungry I have been for what he brought me. I wanted so to know the truth of my birth. Oh, I hated this life!" She flung her disengaged hand into the air, with a gesture expressive of disgust. "I was crazy to get away from it. That was what made the man look good to me—he—he promised so much. You will believe me, won't you? Oh, you must; I am going to make you. I am a singer in music halls; I was brought up to that life from a little girl, and of course, I know what you Western men think of us as a class. Hawley showed it in his whole manner toward me, and I resented it; just for that, deep down in my heart, I hated him. I know it now, now that I really understand his purpose; but some way, when I was with him he seemed to fascinate me, to make me do just as he willed. But you have never been that way; you—you have acted as though I was somebody—somebody nice, and not just a music-hall singer. Perhaps it's just your way, and maybe, deep down you don't think I'm any better than the others do, but—but I want you to think I am, and I am going to tell you the truth, and you must believe me—I am a good girl."

"Great God! of course you are," he blurted out. "Don't you suppose I know? That isn't what has been bothering me, lassie. Why, I'd 'a' fought any buck who'd 'a' sneered at you. What I wanted to know was, whether or not you really cared for any of those duffers. Can you tell me that, Christie?"

She lifted her eyes to his face, her lips parted.

"I can answer any thing you ask."

"And you do not care for them?"

"No."

He drew his breath sharply, his round face rosy.

"Then you have got to listen to me, for I'm deadly in earnest. I'm an old, rough, bald-headed fool that don't know much about women,—I never thought before I'd ever want to,—but you can bet on one thing, I'm square. Anybody in this town will tell you I'm square. They'll tell you that whatever I say goes. I've never run around much with women; somehow I never exactly liked the kind I've come up against, and maybe they didn't feel any particular interest in me. I didn't cut much shine as a ladies' man, but, I reckon now, it's only because the right one hadn't happened along. She is here now, though, all right, and I knew it the very first time I set eyes on her. Oh, you roped and tied me all right the first throw. Maybe I did get you and that half-sister mixed up a bit, but just the same you were the one I really wanted. Hope's all right; she's a mighty fine girl, but you are the one for me, Christie. Could you—could you care for such a duffer as I am?"

Her lips were smiling and so were her eyes, but it was a pleading smile.

"I—I don't think it would be so very hard," she admitted, "not if you really wanted me to."

"You know what I mean—that I love you,—wish you to be my wife?"

"I supposed that was it—that—that you wanted me."

"Yes, and—and you will love me?"

Her head drooped slowly, so slowly he did not realize the significance of the action, until her lips touched his hand.

"I do," she said; "you are the best man in the world."

Fairbain could not move, could not seem to realize what it all meant. The outcome had been so sudden, so surprising, that all power of expression deserted him. In bewilderment he lifted her face, and looked into her eyes. Perhaps she realized—with the swift intuition of a clever woman—the man's perplexity, for instantly she led his mind to other things.

"But let us not talk of ourselves any more, to-night. There is so much I wish to know; so much that ought to be done." She sprang to her feet. "Why, it is almost shameful for us to stay here, selfishly happy, while others are in such trouble. Have they discovered Hope?"

"No; we scoured the whole town and found no trace. Now they are outside on the prairie, but there can be little chance of their picking up a trail before daylight."

"And Hawley?"

"He has vanished also; without doubt they are together. What do you suppose he can want of her? How do you imagine he ever got her to go with him? She isn't that sort of a girl."

She shook her head, shivering a little.

"He must have mistaken her for me—perhaps has not even yet discovered his mistake. But what it all means, or how he gained her consent to go with him, I cannot conceive."

She stood with hands clasped, staring out the window.

"There is a little light showing already," she exclaimed, pointing. "See, yonder. Oh, I trust they will find her alive, and unhurt. That man, I believe, is capable of any crime. But couldn't you be of some help? Why should you remain here with me? I am in no danger."

"You really wish me to go, Christie?"

"Not that way—not that way," and she turned impulsively, with hands outstretched. "Of course I want you here with me, but I want you to help bring Hope back."

He drew her to him, supremely happy now, every feeling of embarrassment lost in complete certainty of possession.

"And I will," he said solemnly. "Wherever they may have gone I shall follow. I am going now, dear, and when I come back you'll be glad to see me?"

"Shall I?" her eyes uplifted to his own, and swimming in tears. "I will be the happiest girl in all the world, I reckon. Oh, what a night this has been! What a wonderful night! It has given me a name, a mother, and the man I love."

He kissed her, not in passion, but in simple tenderness, and as he turned away she sank upon her knees at the window, with head bowed upon the sill. At the door he paused, and looked back, and she turned, and smiled at him. Then he went out, and she knelt there silently, gazing forth into the dawn, her eyes blurred with tears—facing a new day, and a new life.



Chapter XXXIII. Following the Trail



The withdrawal of the sheriff merely stimulated Keith to greater activity. It was clearly evident the fugitives were endeavoring with all rapidity possible to get beyond where the hand of law could reach them—their trail striking directly across the plains into the barren southwest was proof of this purpose. Yet it was scarcely likely they would proceed very far in that direction, as such a course would bring them straight into the heart of the Indian country, into greater danger than that from which they fled. Keith felt no doubt that Hawley intended making for Carson City, where he could securely hide the girl, and where he possessed friends to rally to his defence, even an influence over the officers of the law. The one thing which puzzled him most was the man's object in attempting so desperate a venture. Did he know his prisoner was Hope Waite? or did he still suppose he was running off with Christie Maclaire? Could some rumor of Waite's appeal to the courts have reached the gambler, frightened him, and caused him to attempt this desperate effort at escape? and did he bear Miss Maclaire with him, hoping thus to keep her safely concealed until he was better prepared to come out in open fight? If this was the actual state of affairs then it would account for much otherwise hard to explain. The actress would probably not have been missed, or, at least, seriously sought after, until she failed to appear at the theatre the following evening. This delay would give the fugitives a start of twenty hours, or even more, and practically assure their safety. Besides, in the light of Waite's application to the sheriff for assistance, it was comparatively easy to conceive of a valid reason why Hawley should vanish, and desire, likewise, to take Miss Maclaire with him. But there was no apparent occasion for his forcible abduction of Hope. Of course, he might have done so from a suddenly aroused fit of anger at some discovery the girl had made, yet everything pointed rather to a deliberate plan. Both horses and men were certainly waiting there under orders, Hawley's adherents in charge, and every arrangement perfected in advance. Clearly enough, the gambler had planned it all out before he ever went to the Trocadero—no doubt the completion of these final arrangements was what delayed his appearance at the hotel. If this was all true, then it must have been Christie, and not Hope, he purposed bearing away with him, and the latter was merely a victim of her masquerade.