ess interests down that way, and
so hear a good deal of what is going on at first hand. A New York
gunman is so much worse than these amateurs out here there ain't no
comparison. Why, I know a case----"

He stopped suddenly and took a sip of coffee.

"Tell me about it."

"'Tisn't anything to interest you, and, besides, it wouldn't sound well
here at the table; some other time, maybe, when you and I get better
acquainted. What ever brought a girl like you down in here?"

She smiled.

"I'm a feature writer; I'm doing a series on the West for
_Scribbler's_," she told him. "I visit New Mexico next, but I'm after
something else besides a description of mountains and men; I'm also
going to hunt up an old friend interested in mining, who told me if I
ever got out this way I must look him up.

"I haven't seen him for years. He was continually singing this
valley's charms, and so here I am. And I'm planning a great surprise
on him. And, of course, I'm literally drinking in atmosphere--to say
nothing of local colour, which seems mostly to be men and revolvers."

The man opposite wet his lips with his tongue in an effort to speak,
but the girl was busy eating and apparently paid no attention. Her
calm indifference convinced him that her words were entirely innocent,
and his audacity returned.

"Well," he ventured, "do you agree with this prospector friend?"

"The scenery, you mean?" glancing up brightly. "Why, it is wonderful,
of course, and I am not at all sorry having made the journey, although
it hardly compares with Tennessee Pass or Silver Plume. Still, you
know, it will be pleasant to tell Mr. Cavendish when I go back that I
was here."

He choked and his face seemed to whiten suddenly.

"Mr. Cavendish?" he gasped. "Of New York? Not the one that was
killed?"

It was her turn to stare across the table, her eyes wide with horror,
which she simulated excellently.

"Killed! Has a man by that name been killed lately in New York? It
was Frederick Cavendish I referred to." Her pretence was admirable.

He was silent, realising lie had already said too much; the red had
come back into his cheeks, but his hand shook as it rested clenched on
the table.

"Tell me," she insisted, "has he been killed? How do you know?"

Her earnestness, her perfect acting, convinced him. It was a mere
coincidence, he thought, that this name should have cropped up between
them, but, now that it had, he must explain the