"What was his other name ?" "Cavendish," Westcott replied.

"Frederick Cavendish." A gasp almost escaped the girl's lips.

Here, within an hour, she had linked the many Eastern dues of the Cavendish affair with one in the West.

Was ever a girl so lucky?
And immediately her brain began to work furiously as she walked along.
A sudden turn about the base of a large cliff brought them to Haskell, a single street running up the broadening valley, lined mostly with shacks, although a few more pretentious buildings were scattered here and there, while an occasional tent flapped its discoloured canvas in the night wind.

There were no street lamps, and only a short stretch of wooden sidewalk, but lights blazed in various windows, shedding illumination without, and revealing an animated scene.
They went forward, Westcott, in spite of his confident words, watchful and silent, the valise in one hand, the other grasping her arm.