g the interview
between the Mariposa and herself. I really do not know which one I would
put my money on." He considered this a moment. "But that isn't the only
interesting thing I've gleaned in the day's work." He glanced keenly at
Robert through his white lashes, and again the triumph vibrated in his
thin voice. "Hayden, do you know I've discovered the owner of your lost
mine?"

Robert sat silent a moment, motionless, apparently thinking; his face at
least betrayed nothing. "The owners," he corrected.

"No, I don't mean owners at all," returned Penfield coolly, "I mean just
what I said--the owner. Ah," the most unctuous satisfaction in his voice,
"for all your non-committal manner I don't believe you know as much as I
do."

"Perhaps that's true," said Hayden sharply. "Whom do you mean by the
owner?"

"Why, the elderly gray-haired man with whom Marcia Oldham is seen more or
less," affirmed Horace, self-gratulations in his tone. What if his field
was petty? He did not consider it so, and his feats were great.

Hayden dropped the hand with which he had been shielding his eyes and
stared at the gossip on the other side of the hearth. "What on earth are
you talking about?" he demanded.

"I'm giving you facts, straight facts, dear boy," replied Horace, his
pale eyes shining through his white lashes.

"But--but--"

"Oh, there's no 'but--but' about it." Horace was consummately assured.
"That man is the owner of your lost mine, so go ahead and dicker with
him. I know. You can take my word for it."

"Is this a fact, Penfield?" asked Robert gravely. Horace had at least
succeeded in impressing him.

"True as I'm sitting here. There's absolutely no doubt about it. Yes,
I've got down to the secret of that old lost and found mine of yours." He
chuckled at his wit. "But," his complacency increasing to the point of
exultation, "that isn't all I know, by any means. All winter long I've
been bothering my head about those butterflies the women are wearing, and
now, at last, I've got a line on them."

His voice sounded curiously far away to Hayden and he did not at once
take in the meaning of the words. His head was whirling. So, that
middle-aged, gray-haired man was really the owner of the mine, and it was
for him that Marcia--No, he would not think of it. He would not let
those torturing doubts invade his mind. With every force of his nature he
would again resist them and bar them out.

"Yes," Penfield was gloating, "I'm