mmunity, the searchers had
discovered no proof by this rifling of her bag.

She examined the room thoroughly, and glanced out into the still,
deserted hall before bolting the door. The cracks in the wall were
scarcely wide enough to be dangerous, yet she took the precaution of
shrinking back into the darkest corner before opening her hand-bag and
extracting the letter. It bore a typewritten address, with no
suspicious characteristics about the envelope, the return card
(typewritten also) being the home address of Farriss.

Farriss's letter contained nothing of interest except the fact that
Enright had also left for the West. He instructed her to be on the
lookout for him in Haskell, added a line or two of suggestions, and
ordered her to proceed with caution, as her quest might prove to be a
dangerous one.

Miss Donovan tore the letter into small bits, wrapping the fragments in
a handkerchief until she could throw them safely away. For some time
she stood motionless at the window, looking out, but seeing nothing,
her mind busy with the problem. She thought rapidly and clearly, more
than ordinarily eager to solve this mystery. She was a newspaperwoman,
and the strange story in which she was involved appealed to her
imagination, yet its appeal was far more effective in a purely personal
way. It was Frederick Cavendish who had formerly been the partner of
Jim Westcott. This was why no answer had come to the telegrams and
letters the latter had sent East. What had become of them? Had they
fallen into the hands of these others? Was this the true reason for
Beaton's presence in Haskell, and also why the La Rue woman had been
hastily sent for? She was not quite ready to accept that theory; the
occasion hardly seemed important enough by itself alone.

Westcott's discovery was not even proven yet; its value had not been
definitely established; it was of comparatively small importance
contrasted with the known wealth left by the murdered man in the East.
No, there must be some other cause for this sudden visit to Colorado.
But what? She gave little credence to the vague suspicions advanced by
Valois; that was altogether too impossible, too melodramatic, this
thought of the substitution of some other body. It might be done, of
course; indeed, she had a dim remembrance of having read of such a case
somewhere, but there could be no object attained in this affair.
Frederick dead, apparently killed by a burglar in his