oast, you took the midnight train on the
New York Central?"

"Yes. I had intended taking an earlier one, but was delayed."

"You bought return tickets at the station?"

"No; I had return tickets; they had to be validated."

"Then your name was signed to them; what is your usual signature?"

"F. Cavendish."

"I thought so. Stella, this has all been a strange blunder, but it is
perfectly clear how it happened. That man Beaton evidently had never
seen Frederick Cavendish. He was simply informed that he would leave
New York on that train. He met this Cavendish on board, perhaps even
saw his signature on the ticket, and cultivated his acquaintance. The
fellow never doubted but what he had the right man."

The wounded man managed to lift himself upon one elbow.

"What's that?" he asked anxiously. "You think he knocked me overboard,
believing I was some one else? That all this has happened on account
of my name?"

"No doubt of it. You have been the victim of mistaken identity. So
have we, for the matter of that."

He paused suddenly, overwhelmed by a swift thought. "But what about
Fred?" he asked breathless.

Stella's hand touched his arm.

"He--he must have been the dead man in the Waldron Apartments," she
faltered. "There is no other theory possible now."

The marshal of Haskell came out of the bunk-house, and closed the door
carefully behind him. He was rather proud of his night's work, and
felt quite confident that the disarmed Mexicans locked within those
strong log walls, and guarded by Moore, with a loaded rifle across his
knee, would remain quiet until daylight. The valley before him was
black and silent. A blaze of light shone out through the broken door
and window of the smaller cabin, and he chuckled at remembrance of the
last scene he had witnessed there--the fainting girl lying in
Westcott's arms. Naturally, and ordinarily, Mr. Brennan was
considerable of a cynic, but just now he felt in a far more genial and
sympathetic mood.

"Jim's some man," he confided to himself, unconsciously speaking aloud.
"An' the girl's a nervy little thing--almighty good lookin', too. I
reckon it'll cost me a month's salary fer a weddin' present, so maybe
the joke's on me." His mind reverted to Mendez. "Five thousand on the
old cuss," he muttered gloomily, "an' somebody else got the chance to
pot him. Well, by hooky, whoever it was sure did a good job--it was
thet shotgun cooked his goose, judgin'