act, then loosen.

"You 're trying to insult my father!"

"Your father?" Fairchild looked at him blankly. "Would n't that be a
rather difficult job--especially when I don't know him?"

"You described him."

"And you recognized the description."

"Maurice! Stop it!" The girl was tugging at Rodaine's sleeve. "Don't
say anything more. I 'm sorry--" and she looked at Fairchild with a
glance he could not interpret--"that anything like this could have come
up."

"I am equally so--if it has caused you embarrassment."

"You 'll get a little embarrassment out of it yourself--before you get
through!" Rodaine was scowling at him. Again Anita Richmond caught
his arm.

"Maurice! Stop it! How could the thing have been premeditated when he
did n't even know your father? Come--let's go on. The crowd's getting
thicker."

The narrow-faced man obeyed her command, and together they turned out
into the street to avoid the constantly growing throng, and to veer
toward the picture show, Fairchild watching after them, wondering
whether to curse or luck himself. His temper, his natural enmity
toward the two men whom he knew to be his enemies, had leaped into
control, for a moment, of his tongue and his senses, and in that moment
what had it done to his place in the estimation of the woman whom he
had helped on the Denver road? Yet, who was she? What connection had
she with the Rodaines? And had she not herself done something which
had caused a fear of discovery should the pursuing sheriff overtake
her? Bewildered, Robert Fairchild turned back to the more apparent
thing which faced him: the probable death of Harry--the man upon whom
he had counted for the knowledge and the perspicacity to aid him in the
struggle against Nature and against mystery--who now, according to the
story of Squint Rodaine, lay dead in the black waters of the Blue Poppy
shaft.

Carbide lights had begun to appear along the street, as miners,
summoned by hurrying gossip mongers, came forward to assist in the
search for the missing man. High above the general conglomeration of
voices could be heard the cries of the instigator of activities, Sam
Herbenfelder, bemoaning the loss of his diamond, ninety per cent. of
the cost of which remained to be paid. To Sam, the loss of Harry was a
small matter, but that loss entailed also the disappearance of a
yellow, carbon-filled diamond, as yet unpaid for. His lamentations
became more vociferous than ev