e broke in excitedly. "Is Hope here?"

"Yes, has been for a week; we've had all the police force of Sheridan
hunting you."

The old man stared at the speaker, open-mouthed, and muttered something
about Fort Hays, but Keith, paying little attention to him, hurried on
with his story.

"As I say, she decided upon impersonating Christie here, hoping in this
way to learn more regarding Hawley's plans. We had discovered that the
two were to meet after the evening performance at the stage door of the
Trocadero. I escorted Hope there, dressed as near like Miss Maclaire as
possible, and left her inside the vestibule waiting for 'Black Bart' to
appear. At the head of the alley I ran into Fairbain, told him something
of the circumstances, and persuaded him to escort Miss Christie back to
the hotel. He was not very hard to persuade. Well, Hawley came, and Hope
met him; they went out of the alley-way together arm in arm, talking
pleasantly, and turned this way toward the hotel. The doctor and I both
saw and heard them. I was delayed not to exceed two minutes, speaking
a final word to Fairbain, and when I reached the street they had
disappeared. I have hunted them everywhere without finding a trace--I
have even been through the resorts. She has not returned to the hotel,
and I burst in upon you here hoping that Miss Maclaire might have some
information."

She shook her head, and Waite, glaring impotently at the two of them,
swore sharply.

"Good God, man! my girl! Hope, alone with that damn villain. Come on,
Sheriff; we've got to find her. Wait though!" and he strode almost
menacingly across the room. "First, I want to know who the devil you
are?"

Keith straightened up, looking directly into the fierce questioning
eyes.

"I have told you my name--Jack Keith," he replied, quietly. "Doctor
Fairbain knows something of me, but for your further information I will
add that when we met before I was Captain Keith, Third Virginia Cavalry,
and bearing despatches from Longstreet to Stonewall Jackson."

The gruff old soldier, half-crazed by the news of his daughter's peril,
the gleam of his eyes still revealing uncontrolled temper, stared at the
younger face fronting him; then slowly he held out his hand.

"Keith--Keith," he repeated, as though bringing back the name with
an effort. "By God, that's so--old Jefferson Keith's boy--killed at
Antietam. And you know Hope?"

"Yes, General."

He looked about as though dazed, and the she