Ruyler's tone was haughty. He did not relish being led round by the nose,

and his nerves were jumping.

"Now! Now!" said Spaulding soothingly, as he lit a cigar. "When you hire

a detective you hire him to do things you wouldn't do yourself; and if

you won't give him the little help he's got to have from you or quit,

what's the use of hiring him at all?

"I know perfectly well that nothing but your own eyes would convince you

of what it's up to me to prove--to say nothing of the fact that I count

on your entrance at the last minute to put an end to the whole bad

business. For it is a bad business--believe me. But not a word of that

now. You couldn't pry open my lips with a five dollar Havana."

"Well--you say you had a talk with Madame Delano to-day. Surely you can

tell me some of the things you have discovered."

"A whole lot. I've been waiting for the chance. Not that I got anything

out of her. She's one grand bluffer and no mistake. I take off my hat to

her. When I told her that I could lay hands on the proof that she was

Marie Garnett--although Jim had married her in his home town under his

own name--and that she'd gone home to France with the kid when it was

five, taking the cue from her friend, Mrs. Lawton, and sending word back

she was dead--"

"You were equally sure a few days ago that she was Mrs. Lawton--"

"That was just my constructive imagination on the loose. It was a lovely

theory, and I sort of hung on to it. But I had no real data to go on. Now

I've got the evidence that Jim Garnett died two months before the fire

burnt up pretty nearly all the records, and that his body was shipped

back to Holbrook Centre to be buried in the family plot. You see, he was

sick for some time out on Pacific Avenue, and his death was registered

where the fire didn't go--"

"But what put you on?" asked Ruyler impatiently. "I should almost rather

it had been any one else. He seems to have been about as bad a lot as

even this town ever turned out."

"He was, all right, and his father before him, although they came from

mighty fine folks back east. His father came out in '49 with the gold

rush crowd, panned out a good pile, and then, liking the life--San

Francisco was a gay little burg those days--opened one of the crack

gambling houses down on the Old Plaza. Plate glass windows you could look

through from outside if you thought it best to stay out, and see hundreds

of men playing at tables where the gold pieces--often slugs--were piled

as high as their noses, and hundreds more walking up and down the aisles

either waiting for a chance to sit, or hoping to appease their hunger

with the sight of so much gold. They didn't try any funny business, for

every gambler had a six-shooter in his hip pocket, and sometimes on the

table beside him.




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