d
into the desert, was Hope, and not the music hall artist? He, of course,
fully believed her to be Christie Maclaire at that time, but something
might have occurred since to change that belief. Anyhow, the man was
not now seeking Hope, but the other. Apparently the latter was either
already here in Sheridan or expected soon. And exactly what was it
the gambler desired this Maclaire woman to do? This was the important
matter, and for its solution Keith possessed merely a few hints, a
few vague suggestions. She was expected to represent herself as
Phyllis--Phyllis who? Some Phyllis surely whose physical resemblance to
Hope must be sufficiently marked to be at once noticeable. Willoughby
had evidently revealed to Hawley some hidden family secret, having
money involved, no doubt, and in which the discovery of this mysterious
Phyllis figured. She might, perhaps, be a sister, or half-sister, who
had disappeared, and remained ignorant as to any inheritance. Hope's
picture shown by the boy, and reminding Hawley at once of Christie
Maclaire, had been the basis of the whole plot. Exactly what the details
of that plot might be Keith could not figure out, but one thing was
reasonably certain--it was proposed to defraud Hope. And who in the very
truth was Hope? It suddenly occurred to him as a remarkably strange fact
that he possessed not the slightest inkling as to the girl's name. Her
brother had assumed to be called Willoughby when he enlisted in the
army, and his companions continued to call him this. If he could
interview the girl now for only five minutes he should be able probably
to straighten out the whole intricate tangle. But where was she? Would
she have remained until this time at Fort Larned with Kate Murphy?

There was a noise of movement in the next room. Apparently as Hawley
arose carelessly from his edge of the washstand he had dislodged the
glass, which fell shivering on the floor. Scott swore audibly at the
loss.

"Shut up, Bill," snapped the gambler, irritated, "you've got the bottle
left. I'm going; there's nothing for any of us to do now, until after I
see Christie. You remain here! Do you understand?--remain here. Damn
me, if that drunken fool isn't waking up." There was a rattling of
the rickety bed, and then the sound of Willoughby's voice, thick from
liquor.

"Almighty glad see you, Bart--am, indeed. Want money--Bill an' I both
want money--can't drink without money--can't eat without money--shay,
when