Fairchild did not hesitate. Scraping the watery conglomeration into a tobacco can, he threw on his coat and ran for the shaft. Then he pulled himself up, singing, and dived into the fresh-made drifts of a new storm as he started toward town; nor did he stop to investigate the fast fading footprints of some one who evidently had passed the mine a short time before. Fairchild was too happy to notice such things just now; in a tin can in his side pocket was a blackish, muggy mixture which might mean worlds to him; he was hurrying to receive the verdict, which could come only from the retorts and tests of one man, the assayer.

Into town and through it to the scrambling buildings of the Sampler, where the main products of the mines of Ohadi found their way before going to the smelter. There he swung wide the door and turned to the little room on the left, the sanctum of a white-haired, almost tottering old man who wandered about among his test tubes and “buttons” as he figured out the various weights and values of the ores as the samples were brought to him from the dirty, dusty, bin-filled rooms of the Sampler proper. A queer light came into the old fellow’s eyes as he looked into those of Robert Fairchild.

“Don’t get ’em too high!” he admonished.

Fairchild stared.

“What?”

“Hopes. I ’ve seen many a fellow come in just like you. I ’ve been here thirty year. They call me Old Undertaker Chastine!”

Fairchild laughed.

“But I’m hoping-”

“Yep, Son.” Undertaker Chastine looked over his glasses. “You ’re just like all the rest. You ’re hoping. That’s what they all do; they come in here with their eyes blazing like a grate fire and their faces all lighted up as bright as an Italian cathedral. And they tell me they ’ve got the world by the tail. Then I take their specimens and I put ’em over the hurdles,-and half the time they go out wishing there was n’t any such person in the world as an assayer. Boy,” and he pursed his lips, “I ’ve buried more fortunes than you could shake a stick at. I ’ve seen men come in here millionaires and go out paupers-just because I ’ve had to tell ’em the truth. And I ’m soft-hearted. I would n’t kill a flea-not even if it was eatin’ up the best bird dog that ever set a pa’tridge. And just because o’ that, I ’ve adopted the system of taking all hope out of a fellow right in the beginning. Then if you ’ve really got something, it’s a joyful surprise. If you ain’t, the disappointment don’t hurt so much. So trot ’er out and let the old Undertaker have a look at ’er. But I ’m telling you right at the start that it won’t amount to much.”

Sobered now, Fairchild reached for his tobacco can, which had been stuffed full of every scrap of slime that he and ’Arry had been able to drag from the powder hole. Evidently, his drill had been in the ore, whatever it was, for some time before he realized it; the can was heavy, exceedingly heavy, giving evidence of purity of something at least. But Undertaker Chastine shook his head.

“Can’t tell,” he announced. “Feels heavy, looks black and all that. But it might not be anything but straight lead with a sprinkling of silver. I ’ve seen stuff that looked a lot better than this not run more ’n fifteen dollars to the ton. And then again-”

He began to tinker about with his pottery. He dragged out a scoop from somewhere and prepared various white powders. Then he turned to the furnace, with its high-chimneyed draft, and filled a container with the contents of the tobacco can.

“Let ’er roast, Son,” he announced. “That’s the only way. Let ’er roast-and while it’s getting hot, well, you just cool your heels.”

Long waiting-while the eccentric old assayer told doleful tales of other days, tales of other men who had rushed in, just like Fairchild, with their sample of ore, only to depart with the knowledge that they were no richer than before, days when the news of the demonetization of silver swooped down upon the little town like some black tornado, closing down the mines, shutting up the gambling halls and great saloons, nailing up the doors, even of the Sampler, for years to come.

“Them was the times when there was a lot of undertakers around here besides me,” Chastine went on. “Everybody was an undertaker then. Lor’, Boy, how that thing hit. We ’d been getting along pretty well at ninety-five cents and a dollar an ounce for silver, and there was men around here wearing hats that was the biggest in the shop, but that did n’t come anywhere near fittin’ ’em. And then, all of a sudden, it hit! We used to get in all our quotations in those days over the telephone, and every morning I ’d phone down to Old Man Saxby that owned the Sampler then to find out how the New York market stood. The treasury, you know, had been buying up three or four million ounces of silver a month for minting. Then some high-falutin’ Congressman got the idea they didn’t want to do that any more, and he began to talk. Well, one morning, I telephoned down, and silver ’d dropped to eighty-five. The next morning it went to seventy. The House or the Senate, I ’ve forgotten which, had passed the demonetization bill. After that, things dragged along and then-I telephoned down again.

“‘What’s the quotation on silver?’ I asked him.”

“‘Hell,’ says Old Man Saxby, ’there ain’t any quotation! Close ’er up-close up everything. They ’ve passed the demonetization bill, the president ‘s going to sign it, and you ain’t got a job.’

“And young feller-” Old Undertaker Chastine looked over his glasses again, “that was some real disappointment. And it’s a lot worse than you ’re liable to get in a minute.”

He turned to the furnace and took out the pottery dish in which the sample had been smelting, white-hot now. He cooled it and tinkered with his chemicals. He fussed with his scales, he adjusted his glasses, he coughed once or twice in an embarrassed manner; finally to turn to Fairchild.

“Young man,” he queried, “it ain’t any of my business, but where ’d you get this ore?”

“Out of my mine, the Blue Poppy!”

“Sure you ain’t been visiting?”

“What do you mean?” Fairchild was staring at him in wonderment.

Old Undertaker Chastine rubbed his hands on his big apron and continued to look over his glasses.

“What ’ll you take for the Blue Poppy mine, Son?”

“Why-it’s not for sale.”

“Sure it ain’t going to be-soon?”

“Absolutely not.” Then Fairchild caught the queer look in the man’s eyes. “What do you mean by all these questions? Is that good ore-or is n’t it?”

“Son, just one more question-and I hope you won’t get mad at me. I ’m a funny old fellow, and I do a lot of things that don’t seem right at the beginning. But I ’ve saved a few young bloods like you from trouble more than once. You ain’t been high-grading?”

“You mean-”

“Just exactly what I said-wandering around somebody else’s property and picking up a few samples, as it were, to mix in with your own product? Or planting them where they can be found easily by a prospective buyer?”

Fairchild’s chin set, and his arms moved slowly. Then he laughed-laughed at the small, white-haired, eccentric old man who through his very weakness had the strength to ask insulting questions.

“No-I ’ll give you my word I have n’t been high-grading,” he said at last. “My partner and I drilled a hole in the foot wall of the stope where we were working, hoping to find the rest of a vein that was pinching out on us. And we got this stuff. Is it any good?”

“Is it good?” Again Old Undertaker Chastine looked over his glasses. “That’s just the trouble. It’s too good-it’s so good that it seems there’s something funny about it. Son, that stuff assays within a gram, almost, of the ore they ’re taking out of the Silver Queen!”

“What’s that?” Fairchild had leaped forward and grasped the other man by the shoulders, his eyes agleam, his whole being trembling with excitement. “You’re not kidding me about it? You’re sure-you ’re sure?”

“Absolutely! That’s why I was so careful for a minute. I thought maybe you had been doing a little high-grading or had been up there and sneaked away some of the ore for a salting proposition. Boy, you ’ve got a bonanza, if this holds out.”

“And it really-”

“It’s almost identical. I never saw two samples of ore that were more alike. Let’s see, the Blue Poppy’s right up Kentucky Gulch, not so very far away from the Silver Queen, is n’t it? Then there must be a tremendous big vein concealed around there somewhere that splits, one half of it running through the mountain in one direction and the other cutting through on the opposite side. It looks like peaches and cream for you, Son. How thick is it?”

“I don’t know. We just happened to put a drill in there and this is some of the scrapings.”

“You have n’t cut into it at all, then?”

“Not unless Harry, my partner, has put in a shot since I ’ve been gone. As soon as we saw that we were into ore, I hurried away to come down here to get an assay.”

“Well, Son, now you can hurry back and begin cutting into a fortune. If that vein’s only four inches wide, you ’ve got plenty to keep you for the rest of your life.”

“It must be more than that-the drill must have been into it several inches before I ever noticed it. I ’d been scraping the muck out of there without paying much attention. It looked so hopeless.”

Undertaker Chastine turned to his work.

“Then hurry along, Son. I suppose,” he asked, as he looked over his glasses for the last time, “that you don’t want me to say anything about it?”

“Not until-”

“You ’re sure. I know. Well, good news is awful hard to keep-but I ’ll do my best. Run along.”

And Fairchild “ran.” Whistling and happy, he turned out of the office of the Sampler and into the street, his coat open, his big cap high on his head, regardless of the sweep of the cold wind and the fine snow that it carried on its icy breath. Through town he went, bumping into pedestrians now and then, and apologizing in a vacant, absent manner. The waiting of months was over, and Fairchild at last was beginning to see his dreams come true. Like a boy, he turned up Kentucky Gulch, bucking the big drifts and kicking the snow before him in flying, splattering spray, stopping his whistling now and then to sing,-foolish songs without words or rhyme or rhythm, the songs of a heart too much engrossed with the joy of living to take cognizance of mere rules of melody!

So this was the reason that Rodaine had acknowledged the value of the mine that day in court! This was the reason for the mysterious offer of fifty thousand dollars and for the later one of nearly a quarter of a million! Rodaine had known; Rodaine had information, and Rodaine had been willing to pay to gain possession of what now appeared to be a bonanza. But Rodaine had failed. And Fairchild had won!

Won! But suddenly he realized that there was a blankness about it all. He had won money, it is true. But all the money in the world could not free him from the taint that had been left upon him by a coroner’s investigation, from the hint that still remained in the recommendation of the grand jury that the murder of Sissie Larsen be looked into further. Nor could it remove the stigma of the four charges against Harry, which soon were to come to trial, and without a bit of evidence to combat them. Riches could do much-but they could not aid in that particular, and somewhat sobered by the knowledge, Fairchild turned from the main road and on up through the high-piled snow to the mouth of the Blue Poppy mine.

A faint acrid odor struck his nostrils as he started to descend the shaft, the “perfume” of exploded dynamite, and it sent anew into Fairchild’s heart the excitement and intensity of the strike. Evidently Harry had shot the deep hole, and now, there in the chamber, was examining the result, which must, by this time, give some idea of the extent of the ore and the width of the vein. Fairchild pulled on the rope with enthusiastic strength, while the bucket bumped and swirled about the shaft in descent. A moment more and he had reached the bottom, to leap from the carrier, light his carbide lamp which hung where he had left it on the timbers, and start forward.

The odor grew heavier. Fairchild held his light before him and looked far ahead, wondering why he could not see the gleam from Harry’s lamp. He shouted. There was no answer, and he went on.

Fifty feet! Seventy-five! Then he stopped short with a gasp. Twisted and torn before him were the timbers of the tunnel, while muck and refuse lay everywhere. A cave-in-another cave-in-at almost the exact spot where the one had occurred years before, shutting off the chamber from communication with the shaft, tearing and rending the new timbers which had been placed there and imprisoning Harry behind them!

Fairchild shouted again and again, only gaining for his answer the ghostlike echoes of his own voice as they traveled to the shaft and were thrown back again. He tore off his coat and cap, and attacked the timbers like the fear-maddened man he was, dragging them by superhuman force out of the way and clearing a path to the refuse. Then, running along the little track, he searched first on one side, then the other, until, nearly at the shaft, he came upon a miner’s pick and a shovel. With these, he returned to the task before him.

Hours passed, while the sweat poured from his forehead and while his muscles seemed to tear themselves loose from their fastenings with the exertion that was placed upon them. Foot after foot, the muck was torn away, as Fairchild, with pick and shovel, forced a tunnel through the great mass of rocky debris which choked the drift. Onward-onward-at last to make a small opening in the barricade, and to lean close to it that he might shout again. But still there was no answer.

Feverish now, Fairchild worked with all the reserve strength that was in him. He seized great chunks of rock that he could not even have budged at an ordinary time and threw them far behind him. His pick struck again and again with a vicious, clanging reverberation; the hole widened. Once more Fairchild leaned toward it.

“Harry!” he called. “Harry!”

But there was no answer. Again he shouted, then he returned to his work, his heart aching in unison with his muscles. Behind that broken mass, Fairchild felt sure, was his partner, torn, bleeding through the effects of some accident, he did not know what, past answering his calls, perhaps dead. Greater became the hole in the cave-in; soon it was large enough to admit his body. Seizing his carbide lamp, Fairchild made for the opening and crawled through, hurrying onward toward the chamber where the stope began, calling Harry’s name at every step, in vain. The shadows before him lengthened, as the chamber gave greater play to the range of light. Fairchild rushed within, held high his carbide and looked about him. But no crumpled form of a man lay there, no bruised, torn human being. The place was empty, except for the pile of stone and refuse which had been torn away by dynamite explosions in the hanging wall, where Harry evidently had shot away the remaining refuse in a last effort to see what lay in that direction,-stones and muck which told nothing. On the other side-

Fairchild stared blankly. The hole that he had made into the foot wall had been filled with dynamite and tamped, as though ready for shooting. But the charge had not been exploded. Instead-on the ground lay the remainder of the tamping paper and a short foot and a half of fuse, with its fulminate of mercury cap attached, where it had been pulled from its berth by some great force and hastily stamped out. And Harry-

Harry was gone!