ly, "that much the same
cause must account for the presence of both of us. I am a prisoner.
That is true of you also, is it not?"

"Yes," his voice lowered almost to a whisper. "But do not speak so
loud, please; there is an opening above the door, so voices can be
heard by any guard in the corridor. I--I am a prisoner, although I do
not in the least know why. When did you come?"

"Not more than two hours ago. Two men brought me across the desert
from Haskell."

"I do not know how I came. I was unconscious until I woke up in that
cell. I was on the platform of an observation car the last I
remember," his utterance slow, as though his mind struggled with a
vague memory, "talking with a gentleman whom I had met on the train.
There--there must have been an accident, I think, for I never knew
anything more until I woke up here."

"Do you know how long ago that was?"

He shook his head.

"It was a long while. There has been no light, so I could not count
the days, but, if they have fed me twice every twenty-hours, it is
certainly a month since I came."

"A month! Do you recall the name of the man you were conversing with
on the observation car?"

He pressed his hand against his forehead, a wrinkle appearing straight
between his eyes.

"I've tried to remember that," he admitted regretfully, "but it doesn't
quite come to me."

"Was it Beaton?"

"Yes. Why, how strange! Of course, he was Edward Beaton, of New York.
He told me he was a broker. Why, how did you know?"

She hesitated for an instant, uncertain just how far it was best to
confide in him. Unquestionably, the man's mind was not entirely clear,
and he might say and do things to the injury of them both if he once
became aware of the whole truth. Besides, the meeting him there alive
was in itself a shock. She had firmly believed him dead--murdered in
New York. No, she would keep that part of the story to herself for the
present; let it be told to him later by others.

"It is not so strange," she said at last, "for your disappearance is
indirectly the occasion of my being here also. I believe I can even
call you by name. You are Mr. Cavendish?"

"Yes," he admitted, his hands gripping the back of the bench nervously,
his eyes filled with amazement "But--but I do not know you."

"For the best of reasons," she answered smilingly, advancing and
extending her hand--"because we have never met before. However
mysterious all this must seem to