The news caused Fairchild to recoil and stand gasping. And before he could speak, a new voice had cut in, one full of excitement, tremulous, anxious.

“Drowned? Where ’s his body?”

“How do I know?” Squint Rodaine turned upon his questioner. “Guess it’s at the foot of the shaft. All I saw was his hat. What ’re you so interested for?”

The questioner, small, goggle-eyed and given to rubbing his hands, stared a moment speechlessly. Then he reached forward and grasped at the lapels of Rodaine’s coat.

“He-he bought a diamond from me this morning-on the installment plan!”

Rodaine smiled again in his crooked fashion. Then he pushed the clawlike hands of the excited jeweler away from his lapels.

“That’s your own fault, Sam,” he announced curtly. “If he ’s at the bottom of the shaft, your diamond ’s there too. All I know about it is that I was coming down from the Silver Queen when I saw this fellow go into the tunnel of the Blue Poppy. He was all dressed up, else I don’t guess I would have paid much attention to him. But as it was, I kind of stopped to look, and seen it was Harry Harkins, who used to work the mine with this”-he pointed to Fairchild-“this fellow’s father. About a minute later, I heard a yell, like somebody was in trouble, then a big splash. Naturally I ran in the tunnel and struck a match. About twenty feet down, I could see the water was all riled up, and a new hat was floating around on top of it. I yelled a couple of times and struck a lot of matches-but he did n’t come to the surface. That’s all I know. You can do as you please about your diamond. I ’m just giving you the information.”

He turned sharply and went on then, while Sam the jeweler, the rest of the loiterers clustered around him, looked appealingly toward Fairchild.

“What ’ll we do?” he wailed.

Fairchild turned. “I don’t know about you-but I ’m going to the mine.”

“It won’t do any good-bodies don’t float. It may never float-if it gets caught down in the timbers somewheres.”

“Have to organize a bucket brigade.” It was a suggestion from one of the crowd.

“Why not borry the Argonaut pump? They ain’t using it.”

“Go get it! Go get it!” This time it was the wail of the little jeweler. “Tell ’em Sam Herbenfelder sent you. They ’ll let you have it.”

“Can’t carry the thing on my shoulder.”

“I ’ll get the Sampler’s truck”-a new volunteer had spoken-“there won’t be any kick about it.”

Another suggestion, still another. Soon men began to radiate, each on a mission. The word passed down the street. More loiterers-a silver miner spends a great part of his leisure time in simply watching the crowd go by-hurried to join the excited throng. Groups, en route to the picture show, decided otherwise and stopped to learn of the excitement. The crowd thickened. Suddenly Fairchild looked up sharply at the sound of a feminine voice.

“What is the matter?”

“Harry Harkins got drowned.” All too willingly the news was dispersed. Fairchild’s eyes were searching now in the half-light from the faint street bulbs. Then they centered. It was Anita Richmond, standing at the edge of the crowd, questioning a miner, while beside her was a thin, youthful counterpart of a hard-faced father, Maurice Rodaine. Just a moment of queries, then the miner’s hand pointed to Fairchild as he turned toward her.

“It’s his partner.”

She moved forward then and Fairchild went to meet her.

“I ’m sorry,” she said, and extended her hand. Fairchild gripped it eagerly.

“Thank you. But it may not be as bad as the rumors.”

“I hope not.” Then quickly she withdrew her hand, and somewhat flustered, turned as her companion edged closer. “Maurice, this is Mr. Fairchild,” she announced, and Fairchild could do nothing but stare. She knew his name! A second more and it was explained; “My father knew his father very well.”

“I think my own father was acquainted too,” was the rejoinder, and the eyes of the two men met for an instant in conflict. The girl did not seem to notice.

“I sold him a ticket this morning to the dance, not knowing who he was. Then father happened to see him pass the house and pointed him out to me as the son of a former friend of his. Funny how those things happen, is n’t it?”

“Decidedly funny!” was the caustic rejoinder of the younger Rodaine. Fairchild laughed, to cover the air of intensity. He knew instinctively that Anita Richmond was not talking to him simply because she had sold him a ticket to a dance and because her father might have pointed him out. He felt sure that there was something else behind it,-the feeling of a debt which she owed him, a feeling of companionship engendered upon a sunlit road, during the moments of stress, and the continuance of that meeting in those few moments in the drug store, when he had handed her back her ten-dollar bill. She had called herself a cad then, and the feeling that she perhaps had been abrupt toward a man who had helped her out of a disagreeable predicament was prompting her action now; Fairchild felt sure of that. And he was glad of the fact, very glad. Again he laughed, while Rodaine eyed him narrowly. Fairchild shrugged his shoulders.

“I ’m not going to believe this story until it’s proven to me,” came calmly. “Rumors can be started too easily. I don’t see how it was possible for a man to fall into a mine shaft and not struggle there long enough for a man who had heard his shout to see him.”

“Who brought the news?” Rodaine asked the question.

Fairchild deliberately chose his words:

“A tall, thin, ugly old man, with mean squint eyes and a scar straight up his forehead.”

A flush appeared on the other man’s face. Fairchild saw his hands contract, then loosen.

“You ’re trying to insult my father!”

“Your father?” Fairchild looked at him blankly. “Would n’t that be a rather difficult job-especially when I don’t know him?”

“You described him.”

“And you recognized the description.”

“Maurice! Stop it!” The girl was tugging at Rodaine’s sleeve. “Don’t say anything more. 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. of the cost of which remained to be paid. To Sam, the loss of Harry was a small matter, but that loss entailed also the disappearance of a yellow, carbon-filled diamond, as yet unpaid for. His lamentations became more vociferous than ever. Fairchild went forward, and with an outstretched hand grasped him by the collar.

“Why don’t you wait until we ’ve found out something before you get the whole town excited?” he asked. “All we ’ve got is one man’s word for this.”

“Yes,” Sam spread his hands, “but look who it was! Squint Rodaine! Ach-will I ever get back that diamond?”

“I ’m starting to the mine,” Fairchild released him. “If you want to go along and look for yourself, all right. But wait until you ’re sure about the thing before you go crazy over it.”

However, Sam had other thoughts. Hastily he shot through the crowd, organizing the bucket brigade and searching for news of the Argonaut pump, which had not yet arrived. Half-disgusted, Fairchild turned and started up the hill, a few miners, their carbide lamps swinging beside them, following him. Far in the rear sounded the wails of Sam Herbenfelder, organizing his units of search.

Fairchild turned at the entrance of the mine and waited for the first of the miners and the accompanying gleam of his carbide. Then, they went within and to the shaft, the light shining downward upon the oily, black water below. Two objects floated there, a broken piece of timber, torn from the side of the shaft, where some one evidently had grasped hastily at it in an effort to stop a fall, and a new, four-dented hat, gradually becoming water-soaked and sinking slowly beneath the surface. And then, for the first time, fear clutched at Fairchild’s heart,-fear which hope could not ignore.

“There ’s his hat.” It was a miner staring downward.

Fairchild had seen it, but he strove to put aside the thought.

“True,” he answered, “but any one could lose a hat, simply by looking over the edge of the shaft.” Then, as if in proof of the forlorn hope which he himself did not believe; “Harry ’s a strong man. Certainly he would know how to swim. And in any event he should have been able to have kept afloat for at least a few minutes. Rodaine says that he heard a shout and ran right in here; but all that he could see was ruffled water and a floating hat. I-” Then he paused suddenly. It had come to him that Rodaine might have helped in the demise of Harry!

Shouts sounded from outside, and the roaring of a motor truck as it made its slow, tortuous way up the boulder-strewn road with its gullies and innumerable ruts. Voices came, rumbling and varied. Lights. Gaining the mouth of the tunnel. Fairchild could see a mass of shadows outlined by the carbides, all following the leadership of a small, excited man, Sam Herbenfelder, still seeking his diamond.

The big pump from the Argonaut tunnel was aboard the truck, which was followed by two other auto vehicles, each loaded with gasoline engines and smaller pumps. A hundred men were in the crowd, all equipped with ropes and buckets. Sam Herbenfelder’s pleas had been heard. The search was about to begin for the body of Harry and the diamond that circled one finger. And Fairchild hastened to do his part.

Until far into the night they worked and strained to put the big pump into position; while crews of men, four and five in a group, bailed water as fast as possible, that the aggregate might be lessened to the greatest possible extent before the pumps, with their hoses, were attached. Then the gasoline engines began to snort, great lengths of tubing were let down into the shaft, and spurting water started down the mountain side as the task of unwatering the shaft began.

But it was a slow job. Morning found the distance to the water lengthened by twenty or thirty feet, and the bucket brigades nearly at the end of their ropes. Men trudged down the hills to breakfast, sending others in their places. Fairchild stayed on to meet Mother Howard and assuage her nervousness as best he could, dividing his time between her and the task before him. Noon found more water than ever tumbling down the hills-the smaller pumps were working now in unison with the larger one-for Sam Herbenfelder had not missed a single possible outlet of aid in his campaign; every man in Ohadi with an obligation to pay, with back interest due, or with a bill yet unaccounted for was on his staff, to say nothing of those who had volunteered simply to still the tearful remonstrances of the hand-wringing, diamond-less, little jeweler. Afternoon-and most of Ohadi was there. Fairchild could distinguish the form of Anita Richmond in the hundreds of women and men clustered about the opening of the tunnel, and for once she was not in the company of Maurice Rodaine. He hurried to her and she smiled at his approach.

“Have they found anything yet?”

“Nothing-so far. Except that there is plenty of water in the shaft. I ’m trying not to believe it.”

“I hope it is n’t true.” Her voice was low and serious. “Father was talking to me-about you. And we hoped you two would succeed-this time.”

Evidently her father had told her more than she cared to relate. Fairchild caught the inflection in her voice but disregarded it.

“I owe you an apology,” he said bluntly.

“For what?”

“Last night. I could n’t resist it-I forgot for a moment that you were there. But I-I hope that you ’ll believe me to be a gentleman, in spite of it.”

She smiled up at him quickly.

“I already have had proof of that. I-I am only hoping that you will believe me-well, that you ’ll forget something.”

“You mean-”

“Yes,” she countered quickly, as though to cut off his explanation. “It seemed like a great deal. Yet it was nothing at all. I would feel much happier if I were sure you had disregarded it.”

Fairchild looked at her for a long time, studying her with his serious, blue eyes, wondering about many things, wishing that he knew more of women and their ways. At last he said the thing that he felt, the straightforward outburst of a straightforward man:

“You ’re not going to be offended if I tell you something?”

“Certainly not.”

“The sheriff came along just after you had made the turn. He was looking for an auto bandit.”

“A what?” She stared at him with wide-open, almost laughing eyes. “But you don’t believe-”

“He was looking for a man,” said Fairchild quietly. “I-I told him that I had n’t seen anything but-a boy. I was willing to do that then-because I could n’t believe that a girl like you would-” Then he stumbled and halted. A moment he sought speech while she smiled up at him. Then out it came: “I-I don’t care what it was. I-I like you. Honest, I do. I liked you so much when I was changing that tire that I did n’t even notice it when you put the money in my hand. I-well, you ’re not the kind of a girl who would do anything really wrong. It might be a prank-or something like that-but it would n’t be wrong. So-so there ’s an end to it.”

Again she laughed softly, in a way tantalizing to Robert Fairchild, as though she were making game of him.

“What do you know about women?” she asked finally, and Fairchild told the truth:

“Nothing.”

“Then-” the laugh grew heartier, finally, however, to die away. The girl put forth her hand. “But I won’t say what I was going to. It would n’t sound right. I hope that I-I live up to your estimation of me. At least-I ’m thankful to you for being the man you are. And I won’t forget!”

And once more her hand had rested in his,-a small, warm, caressing thing in spite of the purely casual grasp of an impersonal action. Again Robert Fairchild felt a thrill that was new to him, and he stood watching her until she had reached the motor car which had brought her to the big curve, and had faded down the hill. Then he went back to assist the sweating workmen and the anxious-faced Sam Herbenfelder. The water was down seventy feet.

That night Robert Fairchild sought a few hours’ sleep. Two days after, the town still divided its attention between preparations for the Old Times Dance and the progress in the dewatering of the Blue Poppy shaft. Now and then the long hose was withdrawn, and dynamite lowered on floats to the surface of the water, far below, a copper wire trailing it. A push of the plunger, a detonation, and a wait of long moments; it accomplished nothing, and the pumping went on. If the earthly remains of Harry Harkins were below, they steadfastly refused to come to the surface.

The volunteers had thinned now to only a few men at the pumps and the gasoline engine, and Sam Herbenfelder was taking turns with Fairchild in overseeing the job. Spectators were not as frequent either; they came and went,-all except Mother Howard, who was silently constant. The water had fallen to the level of the drift, two hundred feet down; the pumps now were working on the main flood which still lay below, while outside the townspeople came and went, and twice daily the owner and proprietor and general assignment reporter of the Daily Bugle called at the mouth of the tunnel for news of progress. But there was no news, save that the water was lower. The excitement of it began to dim. Besides, the night of the dance was approaching, and there were other calls for volunteers, for men to set up the old-time bar in the lodge rooms of the Elks Club; for others to dig out ancient roulette wheels and oil them in preparation for a busy play at a ten-cent limit instead of the sky-high boundaries of a day gone by; for some one to go to Denver and raid the costume shops, to say nothing of buying the innumerable paddles which must accompany any old-time game of keno. But Sam stayed on-and Fairchild with him-and the loiterers, who would refuse to work at anything else for less than six dollars a day, freely giving their services at the pumps and the engines in return for a share of Sam’s good will and their names in the papers.

A day more and a day after that. Through town a new interest spread. The water was now only a few feet high in the shaft; it meant that the whole great opening, together with the drift tunnel, soon would be dewatered to an extent sufficient to permit of exploration. Again the motor cars ground up the narrow roadway. Outside the tunnel the crowds gathered. Fairchild saw Anita Richmond and gritted his teeth at the fact that young Rodaine accompanied her. Farther in the background, narrow eyes watching him closely, was Squint Rodaine. And still farther-

Fairchild gasped as he noticed the figure plodding down the mountain side. He put out a hand, then, seizing the nervous Herbenfelder by the shoulder, whirled him around.

“Look!” he exclaimed. “Look there! Did n’t I tell you! Did n’t I have a hunch?”

For, coming toward them jauntily, slowly, was a figure in beaming blue, a Fedora on his head now, but with the rest of his wardrobe intact, yellow, bump-toed shoes and all. Some one shouted. Everybody turned. And as they did so, the figure hastened its pace. A moment later, a booming voice sounded, the unmistakable voice of Harry Harkins:

“I sye! What’s the matter over there? Did somebody fall in?”

The puffing of gasoline engines ceased. A moment more and the gurgling cough of the pumps was stilled, while the shouting and laughter of a great crowd sounded through the hills. A leaping form went forward, Sam Herbenfelder, to seize Harry, to pat him and paw him, as though in assurance that he really was alive, then to grasp wildly at the ring on his finger. But Harry waved him aside.

“Ain’t I paid the installment on it?” he remonstrated. “What’s the rumpus?”

Fairchild, with Mother Howard, both laughing happily, was just behind Herbenfelder. And behind them was thronging half of Ohadi.

“We thought you were drowned!”

“Me?” Harry’s laughter boomed again, in a way that was infectious. “Me drowned, just because I let out a ’oller and dropped my ’at?”

“You did it on purpose?” Sam Herbenfelder shook a scrawny fist under Harry’s nose. The big Cornishman waved it aside as one would brush away an obnoxious fly. Then he grinned at the townspeople about him.

“Well,” he confessed, “there was an un’oly lot of water in there, and I didn’t ’ave any money. What else was I to do?”

“You !” A pumpman had picked up a piece of heavy timbering and thrown it at him in mock ferocity. “Work us to death and then come back and give us the laugh! Where you been at?”

“Center City,” confessed Harry cheerily.

“And you knew all the time?” Mother Howard wagged a finger under his nose.

“Well,” and the Cornishman chuckled, “I did n’t ’ave any money. I ’ad to get that shaft unwatered, did n’t I?”

“Get a rail!” Another irate-but laughing-pumpman had come forward. “Think you can pull that on us? Get a rail!”

Some one seized a small, dead pine which lay on the ground near by. Others helped to strip it of the scraggly limbs which still clung to it. Harry watched them and chuckled-for he knew that in none was there malice. He had played his joke and won. It was their turn now. Shouting in mock anger, calling for all dire things, from lynchings on down to burnings at the stake, they dragged Harry to the pine tree, threw him astraddle of it, then, with willing hands volunteering on every side, hoisted the tree high above them and started down the mountain side, Sam Herbenfelder trotting in the rear and forgetting his anger in the joyful knowledge that his ring at last was safe.

Behind the throng of men with their mock threats trailed the women and children, some throwing pine cones at the booming Harry, juggling himself on the narrow pole; and in the crowd, Fairchild found some one he could watch with more than ordinary interest,-Anita Richmond, trudging along with the rest, apparently remonstrating with the sullen, mean-visaged young man at her side. Instinctively Fairchild knew that young Rodaine was not pleased with the return of Harkins. As for the father-

Fairchild whirled at a voice by his side and looked straight into the crooked eyes of Thornton Fairchild’s enemy. The blue-white scar had turned almost black now, the eyes were red from swollen, blood-stained veins, the evil, thin, crooked lips were working in sullen fury. They were practically alone at the mouth of the mine, Fairchild with a laugh dying on his lips, Rodaine with all the hate and anger and futile malice that a human being can know typified in his scarred, hawklike features. A thin, taloned hand came upward, to double, leaving one bony, curved finger extending in emphasis of the words which streamed from the slit of a mouth:

“Funny, weren’t you? Played your cheap jokes and got away with ’em. But everybody ain’t like them fools!” he pointed to the crowd just rounding the rocks, Harry bobbing in the foreground. “There ’s some that remember-and I ’m one of ’em. You ’ve put over your fake; you ’ve had your laugh; you ’ve framed it so I ’ll be the butt of every numbskull in Ohadi. But just listen to this-just listen to this!” he repeated, the harsh voice taking on a tone that was almost a screech. “There’s another time coming-and that time ’s going to be mine!”

And before Fairchild could retort, he had turned and was scrambling down the mountain side.