He pondered her flat statement unhappily, standing by the window and

looking out into the shaded street, and a man who had been standing,

cigar in mouth, on a pavement across withdrew into the shadow of a tree

box.

"It's all a puzzle to me," he said, at last. "God alone knows how it

will turn out. Harrison Miller seems to think this Bassett, whoever he

is, could tell us something. I don't know."

He drew the shade and wound his watch. "I don't know," he repeated.

Outside, on the street, the man with the cigar struck a match and looked

at his watch. Then he walked briskly toward the railway station. A half

hour later he walked into the offices of the Times-Republican and to the

night editor's desk.

"Hello, Bassett," said that gentleman. "We thought you were dead. Well,

how about the sister in California? It was the Clark story, wasn't it?"

"Yes," said Bassett, noncommittally.

"And it blew up on you! Well, there were others who were fooled, too.

You had a holiday, anyhow."

"Yes, I had a holiday," said Bassett, and going over to his own desk

began to sort his vast accumulation of mail. Sometime later he found the

night editor at his elbow.

"Did you get anything on the Clark business at all?" he asked. "Williams

thinks there's a page in it for Sunday, anyhow. You've been on the

ground, and there's a human interest element in it. The last man who

talked to Clark; the ranch to-day. That sort of thing."

Bassett went on doggedly sorting his mail.

"You take it from me," he said, "the story's dead, and so is Clark. The

Donaldson woman was crazy. That's all."




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