file he had seen on the window-shade had the voice which
belonged to the outlined features, but the listener under the floor had
a vague impression that he was trying to disguise it. Judson knew
nothing about the letter in which Flemister had promised to arrange for
a meeting between Lidgerwood and the ranchman Grofield. What he did know
was that he had followed Hallock almost to the door of Flemister's
office, and that he had seen a shadowed face on the office window-shade
which could be no other than the face of the chief clerk. It was in
spite of all this that the impression that the second speaker was trying
to disguise his voice persisted. But the ex-engineer of fast
passenger-trains was able to banish the impression after the first few
minutes of eavesdropping.

Judson had scarcely found his breathing space between the floor timbers,
and had not yet overheard enough to give him the drift of the low-toned
talk, when the bell of the private-line telephone rang in the room
above. It was Flemister who answered the bell-ringer.

"Hello! Yes; this is Flemister.... Yes, I say; _this_ is Flemister;
you're talking to him.... What's that?--a message about Mr.
Lidgerwood?... All right; fire away."

"Who is it?" came the inquiry, in the grating voice which fitted, and
yet did not fit, the man whom Judson had followed from his boarding of
the train at Angels to Silver Switch, and from the gulch of the old spur
to his disappearance on the wooded slope of Little Butte ridge.

The listener heard the click of the telephone ear-piece replacement.

"It's Goodloe, talking from his station office at Little Butte,"
replied the mine owner. "The despatcher has just called him up to say
that Lidgerwood left Angels in his service-car, running special, at
eight-forty, which would figure it here at about eleven, or a little
later."

"Who is running it?" inquired the other man rather anxiously, Judson
decided.

"Williams and Bradford. A fool for luck, every time. We might have had
to _ecraser_ a couple of our friends."

The French was beyond Judson, but the mine-owner's tone supplied the
missing meaning, and the listener under the floor had a sensation like
that which might be produced by a cold wind blowing up the nape of his
neck.

"There is no such thing as luck," rasped the other voice. "My time was
damned short--after I found out that Lidgerwood wasn't coming on the
passenger. But I managed to send word to Matthews and Lester,