"You didn't recognize him, then?"

"I--I don't know. It was all so sudden--like seein' a corpse--speakin'

that name."

"He wore a short beard?"

"Yes. But Ben Cameron was smooth shaved."

"Did Ben Cameron have any distinguishing mark--anything you could remember him by?"

"Yes. Ben Cameron's little finger of his left hand was missin'----. But of course, Mr. Nichols, I couldn't see nothin' in the dark."

"No, of course," said Peter with a gasp of relief. "But his voice----?"

"It was gruff--hoa.r.s.e--whisperin'-like."

"Was the Ben Cameron you knew, your brother-in-law--was he tall?"

She hesitated, her brows puckering.

"That's what bothered me some. Beth's father wasn't over tall----"

"I see," Peter broke in eagerly, "and this man was tall--about my size--with a hook nose--black eyes and----"

"Oh, I--I couldn't see his face," she muttered helplessly. "The night was too dark."

"But you wouldn't swear it was Ben Cameron?"

She looked up at him in a new bewilderment. "But who else could it 'a'

been--sayin' that name--givin' that message?"

Peter rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

"Queer, isn't it? I don't wonder that you were alarmed--especially for Beth, knowing the kind of man he was."

"It's terrible, Mr. Nichols. A man like Ben Cameron never gets made over. He's bad clear through. If you only knew----" Mrs. Bergen's pale eyes seemed to be looking back into the past. "He means no good to Beth--that's what frightens me. He could take her away from me. She's his daughter----"

"Well--don't worry," said Peter at last. "We'll find a way to protect you." And then, "Of course you didn't take that message to McGuire?" he asked.

"Why, no--Mr. Nichols. I couldn't. I'd 'a' died first. But what does it all mean? _Him_ bein' scared of Ben Cameron, too. I can't make it out--though I've thought and thought until I couldn't think no more."

She was on the point of tears now, so Peter soothed her gently.

"Leave this to me, Mrs. Bergen." And then, "You haven't said anything of this to any one?"

"Not a soul--I--I was hopin' it might 'a' been just a dream."

Peter was silent for a moment, gazing out of the window and thinking deeply.

"No. It wasn't a dream," he said quietly at last. "You saw a man by the kitchen door, and he gave you the message about Ben Cameron, _but the man you saw wasn't Ben Cameron_, Mrs. Bergen, because, unless I'm very much mistaken, Ben Cameron is dead----"

"How do you----?"

"He didn't die when you thought he did, Mrs. Bergen--but later. I can't tell you how. It's only a guess. But I'm beginning to see a light in this affair--and I'm going to follow it until I find the truth. Good-by.

Don't worry."

And Peter, with a last pat on the woman's shoulder and an encouraging smile, went out of the door and into the house.

Eagerly Peter's imagination was trying to fill the gap in Jim Coast's story, and his mind, now intent upon the solution of the mystery, groped before him up the stair. And what it saw was the burning Gila Desert ...

the mine among the rocks--"lousy" with outcroppings of ore ... "Mike"

McGuire and "Hawk" Kennedy, devious in their ways, partners in a vile conspiracy....

But Peter's demeanor was careless when Stryker admitted him to McGuire's room and his greeting in reply to McGuire's was casual enough to put his employer off his guard. After a moment's hesitation McGuire sent the valet out and went himself and closed and locked the door. Peter refused his cigar, lighting one of his own cigarettes, and sank into the chair his host indicated. After the first words Peter knew that his surmise had been correct and that his employer meant to deny all share in the shooting of the night before.

"Well," began the old man, with a glance at the door, "what did he say?"

Peter shook his head judicially. He had already decided on the direction which this conversation must take.

"No. It won't do, Mr. McGuire," he said calmly.

"What do you mean?"

"Merely that before we talk of what Hawk Kennedy said to me, we'll discuss your reasons for unnecessarily putting my life in danger----"

"This shooting you've spoken of----"

"This attempted _murder_!"

"You're dreaming."

Peter laughed at him. "You'll be telling me in a moment that you didn't hear the shots." And then, leaning forward so that he stared deep into his employer's eyes, "See here, Mr. McGuire, I'm not to be trifled with.

I know too much of your affairs--more than you think I do----"

"He talked----?" McGuire's poise was slipping from him.

"One moment, if you please. I want this thing perfectly understood. Your arrangements were cleverly made--changing the guards--your instructions to me--the flashlight and all the rest. You didn't want to kill me if you could help it. I'm obliged for this consideration. You forgot that your hand isn't as steady now as it was when you were a dead shot out in Arizona--Ah! I see that you already understand what I mean."

McGuire had started forward in his chair, his face livid.

"You know----?"

"Yes. More than I wanted to know--more than I would ever have known if you'd played fair with me. You cared nothing for my life. You shot, twice, missed killing your man and then when the light went out, sneaked away like the coward that you are----"

"D----n you," croaked McGuire feebly, falling back in his chair.

"Leaving me to the mercies of your ancient enemy in the dark--who thought _me_ your accomplice. You can hardly blame him under the circ.u.mstances. But I got the best of him--luckily for me, and disarmed him. If you had remained a few moments longer you might have taken part in our very interesting conversation. Do you still deny all this?"

McGuire, stifled with his fear and fury, was incapable of a reply.