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.