meant an expenditure which hurt, but
which was necessary, nevertheless.

Slow, puffing and wheezing, the train made its way along Clear Creek
canon, crawled across the newly built trestle which had been erected to
take the place of that which had gone out with the spring flood of the
milky creek, then jangled into Denver. Fairchild hurried uptown, found
the old building to which he had been directed by the telegram, and
made the upward trip in the ancient elevator, at last to knock upon a
door. A half-whining voice answered him, and he went within.

A greasy man was there, greasy in his fat, uninviting features, in his
seemingly well-oiled hands as they circled in constant kneading, in his
long, straggling hair, in his old, spotted Prince Albert--and in his
manners. Fairchild turned to peer at the glass panel of the door. It
bore the name he sought. Then he looked again at the oily being who
awaited him.

"Mr. Barnham?"

"That's what I 'm called." He wheezed with the self-implied humor of
his remark and motioned toward a chair. "May I ask what you 've come
to see me about?"

"I have n't the slightest idea. You sent for me." Fairchild produced
the telegram, and the greasy person who had taken a position on the
other side of a worn, walnut table became immediately obsequious.

"Of course! Of course! Mr. Fairchild! Why did n't you say so when
you came in? Of course--I 've been looking for you all day. May I
offer you a cigar?"

He dragged a box of domestic perfectos from a drawer of the table and
struck a match to light one for Fairchild. He hastily summoned an ash
tray from the little room which adjoined the main, more barren office.
Then with a bustling air of urgent business he hurried to both doors
and locked them.

"So that we may not be disturbed," he confided in that high, whining
voice. "I am hoping that this is very important."

"I also." Fairchild puffed dubiously upon the more dubious cigar. The
greasy individual returned to his table, dragged the chair nearer it,
then, seating himself, leaned toward Fairchild.

"If I 'm not mistaken, you 're the owner of the Blue Poppy mine."

"I 'm supposed to be."

"Of course--of course. One never knows in these days what he owns or
when he owns it. Very good, I 'd say, Mr. Fairchild, very good. Could
you possibly do me the favor of telling me how you 're getting along?"

Fairchild's eyes narrowed.

"I thought you had information--for me