ted that tiny notice in the _Bugle_, telling of her
probable marriage in the late autumn to a man he detested as a cad and
as an enemy. He had tried his best to follow the lure of silver; if
silver existed in the Blue Poppy mine, he had labored against the
powers of Nature, only to be the unwilling cause of a charge of murder
against his father. And more, it was clear, cruelly clear, that if it
had not been for his own efforts and those of a man who had come to
help him, the skeleton of Sissie Larsen never would have been
discovered, and the name of Thornton Fairchild might have gone on in
the peace which the white-haired, frightened man had sought.

But now there was no choosing. Robert was the son of a murderer. Six
men had stamped that upon him in the basement of the courthouse that
night. His funds were low, growing lower every day, and there was
little possibility of rehabilitating them until the trial of Harry
should come, and Fate should be kind enough to order an acquittal,
releasing the products from escrow. In case of a conviction, Fairchild
could see only disaster. True, the optimistic Farrell had spoken of a
Supreme Court reversal of any verdict against his partner, but that
would avail little as far as the mine was concerned. It must still
remain in escrow as the bond of Harry until the case was decided, and
that might mean years. And one cannot borrow money upon a thing that
is mortgaged in its entirety to a commonwealth. In the aggregate, the
outlook was far from pleasant. The Rodaines had played with stacked
cards, and so far every hand had been theirs. Fairchild's credit, and
his standing, was ruined. He had been stamped by the coroner's jury as
the son of a murderer, and that mark must remain upon him until it
could be cleared by forces now imperceptible to Fairchild. His partner
was under bond, accused of four crimes. The Rodaines had won a
victory, perhaps greater than they knew. They had succeeded in soiling
the reputations of the two men they called enemies, damaging them to
such an extent that they must henceforth fight at a disadvantage,
without the benefit of a solid ground of character upon which to stand.
Fairchild suddenly realized that he was all but whipped, that the
psychological advantage was all on the side of Squint Rodaine, his son,
and the crazy woman who did their bidding. More, another hope had gone
glimmering; even had the announcement not come forth that Anita
Ric