single moment he had waited to speak to Fairbain? The man's
heart beat like a trip-hammer with apprehension, a sudden fear for Hope
taking possession of him. Surely the girl would never consent to enter
any of those dens along the way, and Hawley would not dare resort to
force in the open street. The very thought seemed preposterous, and yet,
with no other supposition possible, he entered these one after the other
in hasty search, questioning the inmates sharply, only to find himself
totally baffled--Hawley and Hope had vanished as though swallowed by the
earth. He explored dark passage-ways between the scattered buildings,
rummaging about recklessly, but came back to the street again without
reward.

Could they have gone down the other side, in the deeper shadows, and
thus reached the hotel more quickly than it seemed to him possible?
There was hardly a chance that this could be true, and yet Keith grasped
at it desperately, cursing himself for having wasted time. Five minutes
later, breathless, almost speechless with anxiety, he startled the
clerk.

"Has Miss Waite come in? Miss Hope Waite?"

"Blamed if I know," retorted the other, indifferently. "Can't for the
life of me tell those two females apart. One of them passed through
'bout ten minutes ago; Doc Fairbain was with her. Another party just
went upstairs hunting Miss Maclaire, and as they haven't come down, I
reckon it must have been her--anything wrong?"

"I'm not sure yet," shortly. "Who was this other person?"

"Old fellow with white hair and whiskers--swore like a pirate--had the
sheriff along with him."

It came to Keith in a flash--it was Waite. Perhaps Christie knew.
Perhaps the General knew. Certainly something of importance was
crystallizing in the actress' room which might help to explain all else.
He rushed up the stairs, barely waiting to rap once at the closed door
before he pressed it open. The sight within held him silent, waiting
opportunity to blurt out his news. Here, also, was tragedy, intense,
compelling, which for the instant seemed to even overshadow the fate
of the girl he loved. There were three men present, and the woman. She
stood clutching the back of a chair, white-faced and open-eyed, with
Fairbain slightly behind her, one hand grasping her arm, the other
clinched, his jaw set pugnaciously. Facing these two was Waite, and a
heavily built man wearing a brown beard, closely trimmed.

"You'd better acknowledge it," Waite snapped