had gone for a last look at the clay that had
yesterday been Thomas Gilbert. Of course Worth would do that before he
left Santa Ysobel. But would Edwards go in with him--or was he only
along to drive the machine? It might be worth my while to know. But I
could ask to-morrow; it wasn't worth a tired man's waiting up for. We
must make an early start in the morning. I went upstairs to bed.

CHAPTER XIV

SEVEN LOST DAYS

Instead of driving up to San Francisco with Worth and Barbara, the next
morning, I was headed south at a high rate of speed. Sitting in the
Pullman smoker, going over what had happened and what I had made of it,
vainly studying a small, blue blotter with some senseless hieroglyphics
reversed upon it, I wasn't at all sure that this move of mine was
anywhere near the right one. But the thing hit me so quick, had to be
decided in a flash, and my snap judgment never was good.

We were all at breakfast there at the Gilbert house when I got the phone
that those boobs down in Los Angeles had let Skeels slip through their
fingers. I could see no way but to go myself. When I went out to
retrieve my hand bag from the roadster, there was Barbara already in the
seat. I delayed a minute to explain to her. She was full of eager
interest; it seemed to her that Skeels ducking the detectives that way
was more than clever--almost worthy of a wonder man.

"Slickest thing I ever knew," I grumbled. "You can gamble I wouldn't be
going south after him if Skeels hadn't shown himself too many for the
Hicks agency--and they're one of the best in the business."

Worth came out and settled himself at the wheel; he and Edwards
exchanged a last, low-toned word; and they were ready to be off.
Barbara leaned towards me with shining eyes.

"Perhaps," she said, "Skeels might even be Clayte!" then the roadster
whisked her away.

The bulk of Worth Gilbert's fortune was practically tied up in this
affair. Even as the Pullman carried me Los Angeles-ward, that boy was
getting in to San Francisco, going to the bank, and turning over to them
capital that represented not only his wealth but his honor. If we failed
to trace this money, he was a discredited fool. Yes, I had done right to
come.

So far on that side. Then apprehension began to mutter within me about
the situation at Santa Ysobel. How long would that coroner's verdict of
suicide satisfy the public? How soon would some seepage of fact indicate
that the death was murder