The two of them, master and man, made a diligent and careful search, taking perhaps an hour, but not a trace of the lost package could they find; then, dazed, puzzled beyond words, unbelieving still, but with a heavy sinking of the heart, Hayden sat down to face the situation, to make some attempt to review it calmly and to get matters clear in his own mind.

Their recent search eliminated himself from the situation; reluctantly he relinquished the hope that in an absent-minded moment he had disposed of his precious bundle in some out-of-the-way place. No, he and Tatsu had sought too thoroughly for that to remain a possibility. Eliminating then himself, there remained Tatsu. Although perfectly convinced in his own mind of his valet's innocence, still, for the purposes of inquiry, he would presume him to be the thief. Of course nothing could have been easier than for him to purloin the photographs; but what reason would he have for doing so? The motive, where would be the motive? Would not the reasonable hypothesis be that the Japanese had been approached by some of the owners of the property, who either fearing or suspecting that he, Hayden, held visible proofs of the lost mine, had bribed his servant to gain the desired information? But admitting this to be the case, and Hayden did not believe it for a moment, why had Tatsu remained instead of departing as prudence would seem to dictate?

That of course could be explained by assuming that prudence dictated another line of policy, that he deemed it the best way of averting suspicion. Perhaps! But the conclusion was not particularly satisfactory. Every lead Robert had followed seemed to bring him to a blind wall. He rose restlessly and walked up and down the room, and then sat down again, drumming drearily on the arm of his chair. What now? What new line could he follow? By eliminating the servants, Tatsu, and himself, what remained? His guests. He felt a swift recoil at the bare suggestion, even though a mental and hidden one, of implicating them in this matter, and experienced a succeeding disgust and impulse to abandon his inquiry at once.

Yet, there were the facts, the ugly, inexplicable facts staring him in the face, and he knew that it would be impossible for him to abandon the matter, mentally at least, until he had arrived at some sort of a satisfactory solution. His guests, he ran them over. In every instance, even if they were capable of such an act, the motive was lacking, save in one case. Steadily as the needle veers to the pole, his suspicions pointed to the Mariposa. There at least the motive was not lacking.

Ah, he reflected, falling into deeper gloom, if she had them, then he was indeed lost. Even now, by this time, there would be a set of duplicate photographs made, and careful copies of his charts and maps. In some peculiar way he would probably find the photographs again on his table, and all further communication with him on the subject of The Veiled Mariposa would doubtless be declined by the owners of the property, their voice being Mademoiselle Mariposa. Within the shortest possible time, one of their prospectors on the property would discover the hidden trail, and the owners would begin immediate operations, and he as much out of all transactions as if he did not exist.

Suppose he put a detective on the case immediately; it was extremely likely that before the man could take any steps in the matter or decide on the line he meant to follow, the photographs would again be in Hayden's possession.

No, he thought in bitter cynicism, he might as well await their return with what calmness he could muster, for he saw little or no use in taking any definite steps in the matter.

For a time he remained sunk in a listless dejection, sitting among the ashes of his hopes, his dreams of vast wealth gone, his shining Spanish castles in ruins about him. But again his dulled brain began to work. How did Ydo secure the photographs, if indeed it were she who had secured them? She had come late, laid aside her wraps in the dressing-room, and had entered the drawing-room followed by her secretary. From the moment of her first appearance he remembered practically every motion she had made. She had not moved about at all during her brief stay and had certainly not been anywhere near the table which had held the photographs, but had seated herself and gone through her tricks on the opposite side of the room.

Now as to the secretary. Well, she on her part had not moved from the piano-stool. He could see her, too, enter the room and leave it. The whole mental picture of the group was portrayed before him. As he distinctly remembered, the person who stood nearest the table while Mademoiselle Mariposa drew aside the veil of the future, was Edith Symmes, who sat almost directly before it. To the left of her was Marcia, pale and sad, and close beside her Horace Penfield. Heavens! He jumped impatiently to his feet. He was simply getting into a morbid muddle sitting here brooding over this matter. He must have action, action of some kind, and obeying a sudden impulse, he decided to see Ydo at once.

Wasting no time in reflection, he telephoned to her apartment, and impressed upon the surprised and reluctant maid that no matter who was there, or what the appointments for the day might be, he must see her mistress within the half-hour on business of the most imperative nature.

His rapid and excited speech must have impressed the young woman with the urgency of the case, for she presently returned to the telephone with the message that if he would call within the next twenty minutes Mademoiselle Mariposa would see him.

It is needless to say that Hayden lost no time in getting to the Mariposa's apartment-house, but reached it as fast as a chauffeur could be induced to make the run thither, and was, after a very brief delay, admitted to Ydo's library. She was sitting there alone, looking over a newspaper, and as he came through the door she sprang up smilingly and expectantly to meet him. Then at the sight of his pale and harassed face she recoiled in evident and unsimulated surprise.

"Why, what is the matter?" she cried. "You have aged a thousand years!"

"Matter enough!" he exclaimed. "The photographs and maps of The Veiled Mariposa are all, all gone. They have been taken." He shot the words at her as from a rapid-fire gun, watching keenly from narrowed and scornful eyes the effect upon her.

Her very lips grew white. "Impossible!" she gasped. "Impossible!" Her surprise was as genuine as the slow, sickly pallor which had over-spread her face. He could not doubt her. Supremely clever woman as she was, she was incapable of this kind of acting. He gave a quick sob, almost a sob of relief. If not against him she would be for him and her assistance would be invaluable, especially since their interests were pooled.

"Then you," he stammered involuntarily, "you know nothing about it?"

"I!" Her eyes glittered in quick anger. "Of what are you thinking? Oh, I see." She was laughing now. "Oh, no, no, no! Dear me, no! That would not suit my game at all. If you knew the circumstances and, if I may venture to suggest it, myself better you would never have dreamed of such a thing. But," frowning now, "when and how were they taken? Begin at the beginning and tell me all about it."

"There is nothing much to tell," he said. "I sent for the photographs while still at the dinner-table intending to tell my guests the story of the mine, but—but—" He stammered a little. "I changed my mind. When we left the table I carried them with me, and placed them on the small table between the drawing-room windows."

"And left them there?" she asked quickly.

"Yes, after laying them on the table I dismissed them from my mind, had no further remembrance of them until this morning. Then I went to get them and found them gone. My first idea was that having the appointment with you for this afternoon so on my mind I had probably gotten up in the night and hidden the package somewhere, either when asleep or in a state of half-wakefulness; but Tatsu and I made a most thorough search of the entire apartment, over-looking no possible receptacle where I might have hidden them, and there is absolutely no trace of them."

"The servants," she said rapidly.

"I was coming to them. They were all taken on for the dinner, with the exception of Tatsu, who has been with me for years, and whom, I think, I would trust further than I would myself. When I questioned him he was extremely clear and quick in his answers. His story is that the extra servants all departed before my guests did, and that he personally saw them each one leave and locked the door after them. Then, after the guests had gone he locked up the other rooms very carefully and went to bed. This morning he got up early and put the whole apartment in order; and he is positive, and when Tatsu is positive he is not apt to be mistaken, that neither the photographs nor the maps were on that table, nor indeed anywhere in the rooms at five o'clock in the morning."

The Mariposa listened attentively to what he had to say, and then thought deeply for a few moments.

"There are only two possible explanations of the whole affair, which are in the least plausible," she said at last. "One is that some interested person or persons have heard of your find. It might be some prospector who has been tracking you for weeks, and he, or they may have stolen the papers with a view of communicating with the owners, whom they may know and whom they may fancy that you have not discovered. Your valet may or may not be a tool, that remains to be discovered. Well," resolutely, "in that case there is nothing to fear, I can assure you of that.

"The other hypothesis is that one of the guests had a motive for removing those especial maps and photographs, thus securing possession of them. But who and why?" As she pondered this question an expression of most startled and amused surprise swept over her face, and then she burst out laughing. "How funny!" she cried. "How awfully funny!" The peals of her silver laughter rang through the room.

"What is so awfully funny?" inquired Hayden politely, but with an irritation he could not conceal. "I assure you, it does not seem funny to me."

Ydo had evidently recovered her spirits; the sparkle had come back to her eyes, the color to her cheeks. "Don't bother any more," she counseled blithely. "It's all going to turn out right now. You see."

"I should prefer to know how." Hayden's irritation was increasing instead of diminishing, and he spoke more stiffly than before. "As it is a matter which concerns me primarily and which has caused me much worry I think it only fair that you should share with me the knowledge which seems to justify you in drawing such happy conclusions."

Hayden would never again be nearer losing his temper completely than he was at this moment, for Ydo, after gazing at him for a moment with a sort of whimsical, mock seriousness, again broke into laughter. "Who would ever have dreamed of her doing such a thing?" she apostrophized the ceiling.

"Her!" Hayden felt as if his heart had stopped beating for a moment and then begun again with slow and suffocating throbs. Perhaps Ydo saw or guessed something of his emotion, for she again repeated reassuringly: "It will be all right now within a few hours. You Will see."

"It's going to be dropped," he said in a dull, toneless voice. "It's my affair, Mademoiselle Mariposa, and you are not going to make the least move in the matter. Your suspicions—whichever one of my guests they affect, and I can not even surmise which one you are trying to implicate—are quite beside the mark. This is entirely my own affair, and I tell you, we are going to drop it. Do you hear?"

Ydo leaned forward, her chin upon her hand, and surveyed him with a humorous, unabashed and admiring scrutiny. "Brother in kind if not in kin, little brother of the wild, you are great. But do you mean what you say? Are you really willing to run the chance of giving up a fortune to protect—"

"Nonsense!" he broke in roughly. "Don't go any further. There's no use in talking the thing over." He again sank into somber silence.

But Ydo was apparently unmoved. "There is one thing I meant to ask you this afternoon," she said, "but since I shall probably not have an opportunity to do so I want my curiosity appeased. Why is that mine called The Veiled Mariposa? Did you happen to find out?"

"Yes," he answered, still entirely without interest. "Because, as the maps and photographs show, the only way to reach it is by a little hidden trail just back of a waterfall. You would never suspect it. I happened on it by the merest chance, followed it, and discovered that the mine lay behind this mountain cascade."

"Ah, beautiful!" Ydo clapped her hands. "I remember, I am sure, the very cascade. Although perhaps not, there were many."

"You have been on the ground then?" he asked.

"Ah, yes, with prospectors. But," with a shrug of the shoulders, "we were not so lucky as you."

"The interview for the afternoon is of course off," he said, rising heavily and stretching out his hand for his hat.

"I suppose so," conceded Ydo. She smiled and sighed. "The pretty little coup I had planned is smashed. I have been arranging it for weeks, ever since I learned that you were interested in—But the gods have decreed it differently and have taken the matter into their own hands. Ah, well! But I shall hear again from you to-day; and you will hear from me."



CHAPTER XVII

Hayden was half ill when he left Ydo's apartment. He felt a curious stifling sensation, a longing for air and motion and so strong was this feeling that he decided to dismiss the motor and walk home; but he had proceeded only a block or so, when he noticed an electric brougham draw up to the sidewalk. His heart gave a quick throb for he saw that Marcia's chauffeur was driving; but a moment later, his hopes were turned to disappointment, for instead of Marcia's dear face, the somewhat worn and worried countenance of her mother gazed out.

The moment she caught a glimpse of him, she brightened perceptibly and with a quick motion summoned him. Almost mechanically he made his way across the crowded sidewalk and took the hand she extended.

"Oh, Mr. Hayden," with a plaintive quaver in her voice, "won't you drive about a little with me? I must talk to some one. I must have advice and—and the sympathy that I know your generous heart will be only too ready to give. It may be unconventional to ask you, and I may be taking up far too much of your valuable time. You will tell me frankly if this is so, will you not?"

Hayden murmured a polite protest, and expressed his appreciation of the privilege in a few words, scarcely conscious of what he was saying, and then sank into the seat beside her, inwardly lamenting his stupidity that he had so impulsively dismissed his waiting taxicab.

"So unconventional!" again murmured the lady as he took his seat, "but then, I am all impulse and intuition. As Mr. Oldham has so often said to me, 'I would rather depend on your intuitions than on the reasoning of the wisest statesmen.' Very, very absurd of him, and yet so dear and in one sense, true."

"True in all senses," said Hayden with the gallantry expected of him. This Venus Victrix was not so critical as to cavil at the manifest effort in his tones. Let it be forced or spontaneous, a compliment was a compliment to her.

"Mr. Hayden, Robert, if I may call you so, I am very, very unhappy this morning, and—and I have no one, no one to console or comfort me."

Hayden felt a quick impulse of pity, for there was that in her speech and appearance which convinced him that she really was fretting over something, and he saw that under her careful powder and rouge her face looked worn and worried.

"Dear Mrs. Oldham," he said with the effect at least of his natural manner, "I am sure you are bothering. Will you not tell me why and let me at least try and be of some service to you? You know that I shall be only too delighted to have you make me useful in any way that you can."

He spoke with sincere earnestness, for the small, frail creature beside him, her Dresden-china prettiness all faded and eclipsed, her coquetry extinguished, roused in him a sense of pity and protection.

"Ah, Mr. Hayden, Robert,—you gave me permission to call you Robert, did you not?—you are too, too kind," She leaned her head back against the cushions and carefully dabbled her eyes with her handkerchief.

"Now please, do not think of that," he urged; "just consider what a pleasure it is to me to be of service to you."

"Ah," she threw aside all pretense now, and turning to him clutched his arm, "the most terrible things have been happening and I have had to bear them all alone. Marcia," petulantly, "has left me to bear all things alone. She did not come home at all last night, but Kitty Hampton telephoned quite late, after I had gone to bed, that she would spend the night at her, Kitty's, home. Fancy! Rousing me from my sleep like that! And then, early this morning, Marcia telephoned herself and said that she could not possibly be at home before evening. Imagine! The thoughtlessness, the heartlessness of such a thing!

"But that," resignedly, "that was a mere drop in the bucket. I wish her father were alive! How he would tower in indignation at the thought of my being so neglected and ignored, and by my own daughter, too,—a girl on whose education he lavished a fortune! Why, Mr. Hayden, forgive me, Robert, he would turn in his grave, literally turn in his grave, and"—in a burst of fitful weeping—"he may be quite aware of it, for all we know, and he may be turning in his grave at this very minute."

"Dear Mrs. Oldham," the late and ever lamented Oldham himself, could not have been more sympathetic, "you must have been very lonely indeed, and very much bored, I can quite understand that, but surely, you are not making yourself unhappy over this—this seeming neglect on the part of your daughter. Believe me, you will find that she has some good reason for this action. Surely that is not the only thing that is worrying you."

"Certainly not," The little lady tossed her head and spoke with emphasis. "Marcia's selfishness and thoughtlessness and indifference toward one who should be the dearest thing on earth to her is very hard to bear, very; but I am not made of the stuff that could break under an affliction of that kind. Mr. Oldham used so often to say that he never saw such fortitude and courage, never dreamed that such qualities existed in women until he knew me, and saw the way I met trouble. Oh, no indeed," again dabbling her eyes, "that is not it at all. No, my only feeling about Marcia's conduct is that I have been left to bear intolerable grief and Insult alone."

"Intolerable grief and insult alone!" Hayden really roused himself. "My dear Mrs. Oldham, those are strong words. What can possibly have happened?"

"That is just it. It is a case requiring strong words," she said firmly. "Who do you think paid me a visit this morning? Why, Lydia Ames, who hasn't darkened my doors since Wilfred became interested in Marcia. The idea!" overcome by indignation. "What did she want? A princess of the blood? Apparently not! She wants instead a fortune-teller, a madcap like Ydo Carrothers. She spent the whole time this morning telling me how charming and fascinating Ydo was and what a fillip she gave to life. I told her frankly that I had been very thoroughly acquainted with Miss Ydo Carrothers from her youth up, and that she would be a handful for any one. I'd as lief undertake to chaperone a cyclone. She only chuckled in that disagreeable way of hers and spoke of Wilfred's admiration for that Gipsy. When, Robert—you see I was able to say it that time—when every one has been talking, for the past year of Wilfred's devotion to Marcia. Such a dear fellow and so rich! I loved him like a son; and now, now they Will say that he has jilted her, jilted Marcia, and you know, Robert, a girl never recovers from that sort of thing.

"And then, Lydia Ames, horrid thing, said, oh, how can I tell it, that she was anxious to present Ydo, Ydo Carrothers, forsooth, with a set of butterflies as beautiful as Marcia's. Oh, Mr. Hay— Robert, did you, did you ever hear of anything so cruel? Oh, I tried not to think she had any particular reason for saying it, when in walked Edith Symmes, Edith Symmes of all people, and do you know, Robert, she began to get off the same thing."

She paused to let the enormity of this sink into his consciousness. The tears were streaming down her face, a mask of tragedy, and Hayden could only gaze at her in profound perplexity.

"I'm afraid, I don't know quite what you mean," he said slowly.

So absorbed was she with her grief that she did not appear to have heard him. "You know how malicious they both are," she wailed, "and both of them coming at the same time meant something. 'Talking of butterflies'? Edith Symmes said in that way of hers, 'Well, Mrs. Oldham, you needn't put on such airs because Marcia has the loveliest set in town; nor you, Mrs. Ames, because you're thinking of ordering a set, for I'm going to have a set myself,' Oh, you see, it meant something."

"Mrs. Oldham," said Hayden with the calmness of desperation, "will you not kindly tell me just what you mean? I am utterly and entirely at sea."

"They mustn't know the secret of those detestable butterflies," she answered miserably.

"What secret, Mrs. Oldham?"

"Why, the way Marcia is involved. Oh," weeping afresh, "it's too, too much. Oh, if Mr. Oldham were only here!"

It was impossible to get a coherent explanation from her, and Hayden felt as if he could bear no more. He had only one desire, one longing, to escape, to be alone, to sit down in some quiet spot, and try to pull himself together sufficiently to think things out.

"Dear Mrs. Oldham," he said gently, "I am convinced that you are worrying yourself unnecessarily. Won't you go home now and rest, and let me see you this evening or to-morrow? I am sure you will then take a calmer view of the matter. I am going to leave you now. I have some business matters which must be attended to at once. Good-by."



CHAPTER XVIII

By the time Hayden had reached his own door his nerves were steadied and his poise somewhat restored. He felt sore and bruised in spirit, however, and desired nothing so much as to sit by himself for a time and think out, if possible, some satisfactory arrangement of this tormenting matter. But, as he threw open the door of his library with a sensation of relief at the prospect of a period of unbroken solitude, he stopped short, barely repressing the strong language which rose involuntarily to his lips.

In spite of the fact that spring had at last made her coy and reluctant debut, there had been a sharp change in the weather and winter again held the center of the stage. Regardful of this fact, Tatsu had built a roaring fire in the library to cheer Hayden's home-coming. The flames crackled up the chimney and cast ruddy reflections on the furniture and walls; last night's orchids seemed to lean from their vases toward this delightful and tropical warmth, and there, with a chair drawn up as near the hearth as comfort permitted, was Horace Penfield, long, lean, cold-blooded, enjoying the permeating glow and radiance.

He turned his head lazily when Hayden opened the door, and Robert in his indignation felt a faint chill of apprehension as he met that glance. Penfield's eyes had lost their usual saurian impassiveness. They were almost alive, with that expression of interest which only the lapses and moral divagations of others could arouse in them.

"Hello!" he said, indifferent to the fact that Hayden still stood frowning in the doorway. "I've been waiting about half an hour for you."

"Anything especial?" asked Robert coldly, walking over and standing by the mantelpiece, his moody gaze on the burning logs.

Penfield chuckled. "Oh, I don't know." There was an unconcealed triumph in his tones; but he had no intention of being hasty, he meant to extract the last drop of epicurean pleasure that was possible in this situation. Penfield was not lacking in dramatic sense, and he had no intention of losing any fine points in the narration of his news by careless and slovenly methods of relation.

"No," he continued, "nothing particular; but I've lately run across one or two things which I fancied might be of interest to you. By the way," with the effect of branching off with a side issue, "of course you know that Ames' engagement to the Mariposa is announced?"

"I know nothing of Ames' private affairs," returned Hayden shortly. "How should I?"

"You might have judged that from the way he behaved last night." Penfield again indulged in a series of unpleasant chuckles. "His mother! Lord! There'll be the deuce to pay there! Look at the way she's been behaving over his attentions to Marcia Oldham, and then just fancy how she'll take this! She evidently gave that luncheon the other day to propitiate Marcia, and invited the Mariposa to show the world that Wilfred's so-called infatuation was merely an amiable and tepid interest. I wouldn't miss seeing the fun for a farm—no, not for all those lost mines of yours. I think that I shall drop in for a cup of tea with the old lady this afternoon, and murmur a few condolences in her ear, and then watch her fly to bits." He rolled about in his chair in paroxysms of silent mirth. "But," sobering, "it's too bad to think of missing the interview between the Mariposa and herself. I really do not know which one I would put my money on." He considered this a moment. "But that isn't the only interesting thing I've gleaned in the day's work." He glanced keenly at Robert through his white lashes, and again the triumph vibrated in his thin voice. "Hayden, do you know I've discovered the owner of your lost mine?"

Robert sat silent a moment, motionless, apparently thinking; his face at least betrayed nothing. "The owners," he corrected.

"No, I don't mean owners at all," returned Penfield coolly, "I mean just what I said—the owner. Ah," the most unctuous satisfaction in his voice, "for all your non-committal manner I don't believe you know as much as I do."

"Perhaps that's true," said Hayden sharply. "Whom do you mean by the owner?"

"Why, the elderly gray-haired man with whom Marcia Oldham is seen more or less," affirmed Horace, self-gratulations in his tone. What if his field was petty? He did not consider it so, and his feats were great.

Hayden dropped the hand with which he had been shielding his eyes and stared at the gossip on the other side of the hearth. "What on earth are you talking about?" he demanded.

"I'm giving you facts, straight facts, dear boy," replied Horace, his pale eyes shining through his white lashes.

"But—but—"

"Oh, there's no 'but—but' about it." Horace was consummately assured. "That man is the owner of your lost mine, so go ahead and dicker with him. I know. You can take my word for it."

"Is this a fact, Penfield?" asked Robert gravely. Horace had at least succeeded in impressing him.

"True as I'm sitting here. There's absolutely no doubt about it. Yes, I've got down to the secret of that old lost and found mine of yours." He chuckled at his wit. "But," his complacency increasing to the point of exultation, "that isn't all I know, by any means. All winter long I've been bothering my head about those butterflies the women are wearing, and now, at last, I've got a line on them."

His voice sounded curiously far away to Hayden and he did not at once take in the meaning of the words. His head was whirling. So, that middle-aged, gray-haired man was really the owner of the mine, and it was for him that Marcia—No, he would not think of it. He would not let those torturing doubts invade his mind. With every force of his nature he would again resist them and bar them out.

"Yes," Penfield was gloating, "I'm on to the butterflies, at last."

"Why should you imagine that they have any special significance?" Hayden's voice sounded faint and dull in his ears.

"Because I have a nose for news, Hayden. I was born with it. I feel news in the air. I scent it and I'm rarely mistaken. I said to myself last November, those butterflies mean something, and I intend to get to the bottom of them. And where do you think they led me? Oh, you will be interested in this, Hayden," smiling. "They led me right to the root of Marcia Oldham's secret."

Hayden threw up his head, a flash of anger on his spiritless face. "You can't discuss Miss Oldham here, Penfield."

"Oh, easy now," returned Horace cynically. "It's nothing to her discredit, far from it. You remember the night you suggested that she might live by the sale of her pictures, and I scoffed at you and said that all the pretty little pictures she could paint in a year wouldn't keep her in gowns? Well, you were nearer right than I for once."

A light came into Hayden's face. He opened his mouth as if about to speak.

"Now, just wait," Horace admonished him. "The reason your suggestion struck me as ridiculous was this: One must have a reputation to make a decent living as an artist, and who ever heard of the Oldham pictures? Where were they on exhibition? Who bought them? Nothing in it, you see." He moved his hand with a gesture of finality. "But," impressively, "Marcia Oldham can paint just the same, and beautifully; but that is not all she can do. It appears that as a child she very early showed a marked artistic talent. Her mother always disliked it; though her father encouraged it in every way; but she developed a rather peculiar bent, and in the years that she spent abroad she devoted herself to the designing and making of jewelry and objets d'art. Her especial fad, you know, were those exquisite translucent enamels, just like her butterflies.

"Well, when her father died, and the crash came, Marcia, who was already ranked as a professional among people who knew about those things, decided to go into it as a business and support her mother and herself.

"But that is where the old lady comes in. Obstinate as a mule, weak as water, with a lot of silly, old-fashioned pride, she absolutely balked, had hysterics, took to her bed, did all the possible and impossible things that women do under such circumstances, with the result that Marcia was at her wit's end. Finally, the mother capitulated up to a certain point. Marcia might go ahead and pursue her avocation in peace under one condition, that it should be a dead secret, that not a whisper of it should reach the world.

"At first, Marcia rebelled at this decision; but one of her friends in her confidence, probably Kitty Hampton, who has considerable executive ability, persuaded her that it held certain advantages. For instance, she as a noticeable figure, not only on account of her beauty, but also because of her style and her positive genius for dress. Now, Kitty held—and as events have proved, correctly—that Marcia, by keeping the business end of it dark, could, by appearing as a devotee of social life, advertise her wares as she could no other way, especially when aided and seconded by Mrs. Habersham and Mrs. Hampton.

"But neither of these two women is financially interested with her. That being the case, who backs the business? I am inclined to think"—Horace spoke thoughtfully and yet with sufficient assurance—"that that person is identical with the man who is the owner of the lost Mariposa. By the way, you did not ask his name. It is Carrothers."

"Carrothers! Carrothers! Why, that was Ydo's name. Ydo Carrothers." Hayden huddled down into his chair. He could not think. His brain, his dazed and miserable brain had received too many impressions. They had crowded upon him and he could not take them in. Penfield was talking, talking straight ahead, but although Robert heard the words, they conveyed no meaning to him. Then from the maze of them, Marcia's name stood out clearly. Horace was speaking of her again.

"Hayden, are you asleep? I've just asked you why Marcia Oldham was so surreptitiously carrying off that package from the little table in the drawing-room last night. She wrapped it up in her gauze scarf and carried it off as stealthily as a conspirator in a melodrama."

Hayden threw off his lethargy with a supreme effort. "Did she?" in a tired and rather indifferent voice. "I dare say she was afraid of disturbing the others. I asked her to take them home with her and look them over."

"Oh!" Penfield's voice was a little disappointed but not suspicious. He rose. There was no use in wasting any more time on a man who took news, real news, so indifferently as Hayden. He thought with a smile of various drawing-rooms where his bits of information would create a sensation. Then why should he who could take the stage as a man of the hour, the most eagerly listened-to person in town, longer deny himself that pleasure?

"Good-by, Hayden," he said hastily, nor waited to hear if he was answered.



CHAPTER XIX

Hayden's feeling of intense relief at Penfield's departure was succeeded by an almost numb dejection. The revelations of Horace in regard to Marcia and the photographs had, to his own horror, occasioned no surprise in him, and the rest of Penfield's news had sunk into insignificance beside this confirmation of his suspicions which lay like lead on his heart and which he had refused to confess even to himself. He seemed to have known it all the time, to have known it from the moment the photographs had disappeared. He had no feeling of anger toward her, no blame for her, it went too deep for that.

It was a gray afternoon, and as it wore on toward evening now and again a flurry of snow blew whitely from the sullen skies, and the leaping flame of the fire which had put to rout any lurking shadows was now in turn defied by them.

"A lady to see you, sir." Tatsu stood at Hayden's elbow.

"A lady to see me? Here?" Hayden roused from his apathy to exclaim.

"Yes, sir."

But before he could make further explanation, or Hayden could give orders either to ask the lady to enter or to beg that she excuse him, there was a soft, hesitant footfall, the delicate feminine rustle of trailing skirts, the faint delicious fragrance of violets, and he sprang to his feet, his heart pounding. In some mysterious uncannily skilful manner, Tatsu vanished.

Marcia was very white, her long, dark gown fell about her, her face gleamed pale as a lily, wistful as regret, from the shadow of her large black hat.

"Mr. Hayden, Bobby." She made a step toward him. "Why, how tired you look! You are ill!" she broke off to cry, deep notes of tenderness and solicitude in her voice.

"I am a little tired," he said, with an effort. "But you, too, look pale. Do not stand. Come near the fire. Lay aside your furs. I will have some hot tea brought."

She allowed him to lead her to a chair, her eyes fixed still upon his face. "Something has worried you, is bothering you still. Isn't it so?"

He dismissed the question. "You must believe me," he said, "when I assure you that I am quite well, and that everything is all right."

She was still standing, and now she turned to him and laid her hand upon his sleeve. There was an intensity, almost a wildness in her expression. "Ah," she cried, "you have missed the photographs. I was afraid of that, but I couldn't get here sooner. I telephoned twice, but I could not reach you. You know that I could not have dreamed of coming here, here to your apartment except for the most urgent of reasons. Bobby"—she burst into tears and clung to his arm—"it was I—I who stole your papers and photographs."

"My dear," bending above her, "do not say such things." His voice trembled. "If you borrowed my photographs you did it for some good reason, for cause which seemed right and proper to you. That is enough for me."

"Oh, Robert, Robert!" She was weeping now, her whole figure shaken with sobs. "Your goodness, your sweetness overwhelms me. It is more than I can bear. But, Bobby, you mustn't believe the worst things of me. I didn't take them from the motives you may attribute to me."

"Dear Marcia," he said soothingly, "do not talk of motives. Whatever your motives were, they were right. But you are going to tell me no more now. You are going to sit down here and have a cup of tea, and rest quietly a few moments before you attempt to tell me anything more. Here, you must lay aside those heavy wraps."

He took her furs, he begged her to remove her hat, then occupied himself for a moment in fussing over the fire and giving orders for hot tea, and was rewarded presently by seeing that the color had returned to her lips and cheeks, and that the frightened, strained expression had faded from her eyes.

"There," he said, after Tatsu had brought in the tea things, and he had poured some for her. "Two lumps of sugar, one slice of lemon. You see, I remember your tastes."

She smiled gratefully at him. "Please, may I tell you all about it now?" she asked.

His face fell again into the lines of dejection. In spite of the cheerfulness he had forced himself to assume, and in spite of the compassion he felt for her weakness, he would have postponed for ever this confession which must condemn her.

"Why," he asked, "why not bury the incident in a wise oblivion, and never mention it again? Indeed, indeed, it is better so. One of the best mottoes in the world is, 'Never explain.'"

His lips smiled, but his eyes pleaded, and his heart passionately protested:

Must we lose our Eden, Eve and I?



Her languor and weariness disappeared in a moment; she drew herself up now, the pose of her head haughty, her eyes chill. "Never explain?" she repeated. "It is, as you say, an excellent motto—for those who are best assisted by a wise silence. But I assure you I am not trying to gain your pity, or tolerance or forgiveness. I took your photographs and maps yesterday evening and acted probably on incorrect reasoning and mistaken impulse, but I should do exactly the same thing again under the same circumstances; and now, I insist upon your listening to those circumstances."

She laid aside her cup and with the scarlet still glowing on her cheek began:

"Yesterday morning I received word from Mr. Carrothers that a man who had all the charts and photographs of The Veiled Mariposa had been discovered, and that that man was you. You may imagine my sensations. At first, I could not grasp it, it seemed too inconceivable and incredible to be true, and then, as the facts of the case were given me and I was able to realize it, to take it in, why—I was overcome with joy. Ah, B—— Mr. Hayden, no one was ever so happy as I yesterday morning. Your words of a week ago, the afternoon that we had walked in the Park, came back to me. Your mysterious allusions to the good fortune which was almost within your grasp—and this was it! And to think that I—I should be one of the owners of the property! Why, it was like a fairy-story."

"And are you really one of the owners?" he interrupted her to cry.

"Indeed, yes. But let me go on. I was also told that your information would be in our hands within twenty-four hours, and then, I learned that Ydo was conducting the negotiations. That was the rift within the lute. I immediately became frightened. I did not know what it meant. What I did know was that Ydo stops at nothing to gain her ends. And of course, she, being interested, too—"

"How is she interested?" he interrupted again. "I have not discovered that."

"I will explain later. I want to go on with this part of my story now. But, as I say, knowing Ydo, her daring, her indifference to anything but her own game, her powers of resource—"

"Oh, come, you are unjust to her," he exclaimed, forgetful of his own base suspicions.

"Oh, I know it, but believe me, I am not"—again her head was haughtily lifted—"I am not trying to gain your sympathy by criticizing her; I am merely trying to make you understand the case as it appeared to me. As I say, I was frightened. It was all my own superstition. Indeed, I know that it was; but I got in a panic, and could not reason clearly. No," as he strove to take her hand, "please wait. And then, last night when Horace Penfield asked you to show the photographs I saw a confirmation of my fears, and when Ydo entered I was still more frightened. I suspected an arrangement, a plot between them. There were the photographs and maps on that little table where you had carelessly thrown them; any one could take them; and then when Ydo was going through her nonsense over that glass ball and had every one's attention fixed on her Horace crept around and stood so near the table that I was sure he was going to seize them, so I took them myself. I twisted the gauze scarf which was about my neck around them and carried them out that way. No one noticed. And here they are." She lifted the package from her muff, still wrapped in the scarf, and held it out to him. "No one has even glanced at them; not even myself."

"And you did this to save me! Oh, Marcia, Marcia!" He was more moved than he could express.

"Wait!" She lifted her hand imperatively. "I haven't finished. There are lots of things to tell you yet."

"Postpone them!" he cried ardently. "Forget them until to-morrow! Ah, dearest, you are tired. You have borne too much strain already."

"No, no!" she cried. "It grows late, and I must, must tell you these things before I leave you."

"Leave me!" he cried. "Try it. When you go I go with you."

They both laughed. "But listen, Bobby," she pleaded; and at that "Bobby" his heart glowed, he was surely forgiven. "Don't you want to know how I happened to be the largest owner of the vast Mariposa estate?"

"Oh, indeed I do!" he said. "Are you the largest owner?"

"Yes," she nodded. "You see, at the height of his prosperity, my father bought it from a Mr. Willoughby, whose wife inherited it. No one knew it, but even at that time my father's mind was affected, and before long his disease, a softening of the brain, had fully manifested itself. His greatest interest in life had always been business, and after this change came upon him he got all kinds of strange ideas in his head, among them a perfect mania for destroying papers. It is principally for that reason," with a slight shrug of her shoulders, "that we were left almost penniless. But he had a head clerk, a Mr. Carrothers, Ydo's father, by the way, who saw how things were going, and who, by various ruses, succeeded in saving some of the papers, among them those relating to the Mariposa estate. These were intact.

"After my father's death, as you have probably heard, there was practically nothing left, nothing for my mother and myself to live on. So I decided to go into business. I am," with a little smile, "both a designer and manufacturer of quaint jewelry, ornaments and things; but there wasn't any money. But Mr. Carrothers, who had more or less, was crazy about the Mariposa property. He had looked up the history of the Willoughbys and found that everything that Mr. Willoughby claimed was true, and he wanted an interest in the estate, so he offered to finance my little venture if I would give him a third interest in the property.

"I was glad enough to do so, and he and I went into partnership. It has been a success. We have made money, but it left little time for anything else. Nevertheless, Mr. Carrothers has never lost his enthusiasm in regard to The Veiled Mariposa, and that has kept up my flagging interest. We have not been idle about it either; but have kept prospectors down there almost all the time. Ydo went over the ground two or three years ago. But this year, we had decided to make a special effort. We were to send down some great expert and a seasoned old prospector or two who could positively smell ore on the rocks.

"I sent out my little messages in the shape of the jeweled butterflies, and Ydo, who had not been in this country for several years, decided to tell fortunes under the name of The Veiled Mariposa, and to carry out the idea in her disguise. It was a clever idea because she could advertise, and any one who had anything to communicate about the mine would naturally connect her with it and seek her out. And sure enough, this has proved our lucky year, for you, you discovered it—The Veiled Mariposa." She smiled happily at him.

"To lay it at your feet." He caught her hands and drew her up from her chair. "Ah, Queen of Eldorado, will you take it with my poor heart?"

They were both laughing; but it was laughter that trembled on the verge of tears. "Sweetheart," she murmured, her arms about his neck, her face hidden on his shoulder, "my mine, my butterflies and my heart are yours for ever."

"Ah!" He held her so closely that the violets, crushed upon her breast, protested in wafts of fragrance.

"There are more things I want to tell you," she murmured.

"You will do nothing of the kind, O Scheherazade! Not, at least, until you have had something to eat. Ah, we will go to the Gildersleeve, where we first met, or at least first talked. Come, your hat and wraps, no delay."

He assisted her into her long cloak, and laid her furs about her shoulders.

"How can I pin on my hat," she asked desperately, "when you—"

"Yes? When I?" he said encouragingly. "Why are you blushing?"

"Nobody can properly pin on a hat when some one is kissing her," she protested.

"I am from Missouri," he replied. "You must show me. In other words, I doubt the assertion. Now, to prove it, you try to pin on your hat and I will endeavor to kiss you at the same time."

"You will do nothing of the kind," she insisted. "You will go and stand on the other side of the room. Ah—"

There was no room for further argument, the door was thrown open and Ydo, brilliant, laughing, gorgeous as a tropical flower, entered. Behind her loomed Wilfred Ames with all the radiance it was possible for his stolidity to express.

"Here!" cried Ydo, the music of her laughter filling the room as her eyes fell on Marcia. "Ah, I knew it! What did I tell you?" turning to Hayden.

"What do you mean?" cried Marcia, startled, flushing.

"I mean this," laughed Ydo. "That he," pointing to Hayden, "came to me about noon, frantic over the disappearance of his claims on Eldorado. After he had explained the circumstances to me I knew in a minute that thou wert the woman. I didn't have to gaze into my crystal or run the cards to see that. But why, why? I knew that you didn't take them for—well, reasons that others might have taken them for; but why take them at all?"

There was no gainsaying Ydo. "Because I thought some one else would take them if I didn't," faltered Marcia.

"Meaning me!" Ydo's laughter seemed merciless to Marcia's shrinking ears. "I don't mind the implication. But Wilfred, Bobby, to fancy I would do anything so clumsy! Who says that women are not cruel to women?"

"Ydo, forgive me," pleaded Marcia, "I am humiliated, ashamed." Her voice trembled.

Ydo's green eyes twinkled upon her. "Oh, la! la!" with a friendly, careless little push. "Sweet, dainty lady of the butterflies, I have nothing to forgive. I comprehend you, and he who understands all forgives all. It is simply that you do not understand me. Shall the violet understand the orchid? It is not a thing to think of again, so forget it for ever.

"And speaking of orchids, Mr. Hayden, may I have a few to wear to-night from that vase yonder? They will just suit my gown."

She moved with him across the room, leaving Marcia and Ames standing together; but she did not stretch out her hand to take the orchids he offered, but stood looking at him with her dazzling smile, sweetened, softened with some touch of feeling so deep and yet so evanescent that he could not fathom it.

"Little brother of the wilds, now that you have won Cinderella and Eldorado, as I predicted, I wish you a divine unrest. It is the best I Can hope for you. Eldorado and domesticity mean the fishy eye, the heavy jowl, and the expanded waistcoat; and remember that although the red gods may be silent so long that you will forget them, yet there will come a day when they will call and you will hear nothing else. Then, as you would keep your happiness, get up and follow—follow 'to the camp of proved desire and known delight.'"

"Advice from one about to settle down—don't settle." He strove to speak lightly, but failed.

"I settle! Don't harbor any such vagaries. We may meet again, oh, I don't mean in this sort of a way, I mean where the open road winds on like a great river, and the pines go marching up and down hill, and the blue smoke of the tent-fires curls up to the morning skies. We may meet again, Bobby, on the outward trail that leads from Eldorado to Arcady."

She swept across the room, pausing to kiss Marcia lightly on the cheek as she passed her. "Come, Wilfred," she cried. "We are de trop. Let us see how quickly we can vanish."

The door closed behind them, but the room still held the faint echo of her laughter, the lingering breath of evasive and enchanting perfume.

Marcia had thrown her furs about her shoulders and now she picked up her muff. It fell to the floor, unheeded, as Hayden caught her hands in his.

"What was Ydo saying to you?" she asked.

"She was giving me some geographical information about the relative situations of Eldorado and Arcady, and condemning the former as a health resort."

"Bobby! You're fooling! I can tell by your eyes."

"But her knowledge is incorrect," he announced triumphantly. "For instance, she is not even aware that the towers and treasures of Eldorado lie in the very heart of Arcady, and that we will dwell there for ever and a day, my adored lady of the Silver Butterfly."



THE END