ucket water over him," hiccoughed the other genially,
"allers sobers me off."

Hawley made no response, evidently finding a seat on one end of the
washstand.

"Hardly worth while, Scott," he returned finally. "Perhaps I better
have some understanding with Christie, anyhow, before I pump the boy any
further. If we can once get her working with us, Willoughby won't have
much hand in the play--we shan't need him. Thought I told you to keep
sober?"

"Am sober," solemnly, "ain't had but six drinks; just nat'rly tired
out."

"Oh, indeed; well, such a room as this would drive any man to drink. Did
you get what I sent you here after?"

"I sure did, Bart," and Keith heard the fellow get to his feet
unsteadily. "Here's the picture, an' some letters. I didn't take only
what he had in the grip."

Hawley shuffled the letters over in his hands, apparently hastily
reading them with some difficulty in the dim light.

"Nothing there to give us any help," he acknowledged reluctantly,
"mostly advice as far as I can see. Damn the light; a glow worm would
be better." There was a pause; then he slapped his leg. "However, it's
clear they live in Springfield, Missouri, and this photograph is a
peach. Just look here, Bill! What did I tell you? Ain't Christie a dead
ringer for this girl?"

"You bet she is, Bart," admitted the other in maudlin admiration, "only,
I reckon, maybe some older."

"Well, she ought to be accordin' to Willoughby's story, an' them papers
bear him out all right, so I reckon he's told it straight--this Phyllis
would be twenty-six now, and that's just about what Christie is. It
wouldn't have fit better if we had made it on purpose. If the girl will
only play up to the part we won't need any other evidence--her face
would be enough."

Keith could hear the beating of his own heart in the silence that
followed. Here was a new thought, a new understanding, a complete new
turn to affairs. Christie Maclaire, then, was not Willoughby's sister
Hope. The girl he rescued on the desert--the girl with the pleading
brown eyes, and the soft blur of the South on her lips--was not
the music hall singer. He could hardly grasp the truth at first, it
antagonized so sharply with all he had previously believed. Yet, if this
were true his own duty became clearer than ever; aye, and would be more
willingly performed. But what did Hawley know? Did he already realize
that the girl he had first met on the stage coach, and later inveigle