The knowledge that she was thus being spied upon gave the girl a sudden
thrill, but not of fear. Instead it served to strengthen her resolve.
There had been nothing in her valise to show who she really was, or why
she was in Haskell, and consequently, if any vague suspicion had been
aroused as to her presence in that community, the searchers had
discovered no proof by this rifling of her bag.
She examined the room thoroughly, and glanced out into the still,
deserted hall before bolting the door. The cracks in the wall were
scarcely wide enough to be dangerous, yet she took the precaution of
shrinking back into the darkest corner before opening her hand-bag and
extracting the letter. It bore a typewritten address, with no
suspicious characteristics about the envelope, the return card
(typewritten also) being the home address of Farriss.
Farriss's letter contained nothing of interest except the fact that
Enright had also left for the West. He instructed her to be on the
lookout for him in Haskell, added a line or two of suggestions, and
ordered her to proceed with caution, as her quest might prove to be a
dangerous one.
Miss Donovan tore the letter into small bits, wrapping the fragments in
a handkerchief until she could throw them safely away. For some time
she stood motionless at the window, looking out, but seeing nothing,
her mind busy with the problem. She thought rapidly and clearly, more
than ordinarily eager to solve this mystery. She was a newspaperwoman,
and the strange story in which she was involved appealed to her
imagination, yet its appeal was far more effective in a purely personal
way. It was Frederick Cavendish who had formerly been the partner of
Jim Westcott. This was why no answer had come to the telegrams and
letters the latter had sent East. What had become of them? Had they
fallen into the hands of these others? Was this the true reason for
Beaton's presence in Haskell, and also why the La Rue woman had been
hastily sent for? She was not quite ready to accept that theory; the
occasion hardly seemed important enough by itself alone.
Westcott's discovery was not even proven yet; its value had not been
definitely established; it was of comparatively small importance
contrasted with the known wealth left by the murdered man in the East.
No, there must be some other cause for this sudden visit to Colorado.
But what? She gave little credence to the vague suspicions advanced by
Valois; that was altogether too impossible, too melodramatic, this
thought of the substitution of some other body. It might be done, of
course; indeed, she had a dim remembrance of having read of such a case
somewhere, but there could be no object attained in this affair.
Frederick dead, apparently killed by a burglar in his own apartments,
was quite understandable: but kidnapped and still alive, another body
substituted for his, resembling him sufficiently to be unrecognised as
a fraud, would be a perfectly senseless procedure. No doubt there had
been a crime committed, its object the attainment of money, but without
question the cost had been the life of Frederick Cavendish.
Yet why was the man Beaton out here? For what purpose had he wired the
La Rue woman to join him? And why had some one already entered her
room and examined the contents of Stella Donovan's bag? To these
queries there seemed to be no satisfactory answers. She must consult
with Westcott, and await an opportunity to make the acquaintance of
Celeste La Rue.
She was still there, her elbows on the window-ledge, her face half
concealed in the hollow of her hands, so lost in thought as to be
oblivious to the flight of time, when the harsh clang of the
dinner-bell from the porch below aroused her to a sense of hunger.
Ten minutes later Timmons, guiltless of any coat, but temporarily
laying aside his pipe as a special act of courtesy, escorted her into
the dining-room and seated her at a table between the two front
windows. Evidently this was reserved for the more distinguished
guests--travelling men and those paying regular day rates--for its only
other occupant was the individual in the check suit whom she vaguely
remembered passing on the street a few hours before.
The two long tables occupying the centre of the room were already well
filled with hungry men indiscriminately attired, not a few coatless and
with rolled-up sleeves, as though they had hurried in from work at the
first sound of the gong. These paid little attention to her entrance,
except to stare curiously as she crossed the floor in Timmons's wake,
and immediately afterward again devoted themselves noisily to their
food.
A waitress, a red-haired, slovenly girl, with an impediment in her
speech, took her order and disappeared in the direction of the kitchen,
and Miss Donovan discreetly lifted her eyes to observe the man sitting
nearly opposite. He was not prepossessing, yet she instantly
recognised his type, and the probability that he would address her if
the slightest opportunity occurred. Beneath lowered lashes she studied
the fellow--the prominent jaw and thick lips shadowed by a closely
trimmed moustache; the small eyes beneath overhanging brows; the heavy
hair brushed back from a rather low forehead, and the short, stubby
fingers grasping knife and fork.
If he is a drummer, she thought, his line would be whisky; then, almost
as suddenly, it occurred to her that perhaps he may prove to be Ned
Beaton, and she drew in her breath sharply, determined to break the ice.
The waitress spread out the various dishes before her, and she glanced
at them hopelessly. As she lifted her gaze she met that of her
_vis-à-vis_ fairly, and managed to smile.
"Some chuck," he said in an attempt at good-fellowship, "but not to
remind you of the Waldorf-Astoria."
"I should say not," she answered, testing one of her dishes cautiously.
"But why associate me with New York?"
"You can't hide those things in a joint like this. Besides, that's the
way you registered."
"Oh, so you've looked me up."
"Well, naturally," he explained, as though with a dim idea that an
explanation was required, "I took a squint at the register; then I
became more interested, for I'm from little old New York myself."
"You are? Selling goods on the road away out here?"
"Not me; that ain't my line at all. I've got a considerable mining
deal on up the cañon. I'll earn every dollar I'll make, though, eating
this grub. Believe me, I'd like to be back by the Hudson right now."
"You've been here some time, then?"
"'Bout a month altogether, but not here in Haskell all that time. When
did you leave New York?"
"Oh, more than a week ago," she lied gracefully.
He stroked his moustache.
"Then I suppose you haven't much late New York news? Nothing
startling, I mean?"
"No; only what has been reported in the Western papers. I do not
recall anything particularly interesting." She dropped her eyes to her
plate and busied herself with a piece of tough beef. "The usual
murders, of course, and things of that kind."
There was a moment's silence, then the man laughed as though slightly
ill at ease.
"These fellows out here think they are a pretty tough lot," he said
grimly, "but there are plenty of boys back on the East Side who could
show them a few tricks. You know that part of the old town?"
"Not very well," she admitted with apparent regret, "but of course I
read a good bit about it in the papers--the desperate characters,
gunmen, and all those the police have so much trouble with. Are those
stories really true?"
"There ain't a third of them ever told," and he leaned forward, quite
at his ease again. "I have some business interests down that way, and
so hear a good deal of what is going on at first hand. A New York
gunman is so much worse than these amateurs out here there ain't no
comparison. Why, I know a case----"
He stopped suddenly and took a sip of coffee.
"Tell me about it."
"'Tisn't anything to interest you, and, besides, it wouldn't sound well
here at the table; some other time, maybe, when you and I get better
acquainted. What ever brought a girl like you down in here?"
She smiled.
"I'm a feature writer; I'm doing a series on the West for
_Scribbler's_," she told him. "I visit New Mexico next, but I'm after
something else besides a description of mountains and men; I'm also
going to hunt up an old friend interested in mining, who told me if I
ever got out this way I must look him up.
"I haven't seen him for years. He was continually singing this
valley's charms, and so here I am. And I'm planning a great surprise
on him. And, of course, I'm literally drinking in atmosphere--to say
nothing of local colour, which seems mostly to be men and revolvers."
The man opposite wet his lips with his tongue in an effort to speak,
but the girl was busy eating and apparently paid no attention. Her
calm indifference convinced him that her words were entirely innocent,
and his audacity returned.
"Well," he ventured, "do you agree with this prospector friend?"
"The scenery, you mean?" glancing up brightly. "Why, it is wonderful,
of course, and I am not at all sorry having made the journey, although
it hardly compares with Tennessee Pass or Silver Plume. Still, you
know, it will be pleasant to tell Mr. Cavendish when I go back that I
was here."
He choked and his face seemed to whiten suddenly.
"Mr. Cavendish?" he gasped. "Of New York? Not the one that was
killed?"
It was her turn to stare across the table, her eyes wide with horror,
which she simulated excellently.
"Killed! Has a man by that name been killed lately in New York? It
was Frederick Cavendish I referred to." Her pretence was admirable.
He was silent, realising lie had already said too much; the red had
come back into his cheeks, but his hand shook as it rested clenched on
the table.
"Tell me," she insisted, "has he been killed? How do you know?"
Her earnestness, her perfect acting, convinced him. It was a mere
coincidence, he thought, that this name should have cropped up between
them, but, now that it had, he must explain the whole affair so as not
to arouse suspicion. He cleared his throat and compelled his eyes to
meet those across the table.
"Well, I don't know much about it, only what I read," he began, feeling
for words. "But that was the name; I remembered it as soon as you
spoke, and that the papers said he had been mining in Colorado before
he came into money. He was found dead in his apartments, apparently
killed by a burglar who had rifled his safe."
"Is this true? Why have I never heard? When did it happen?"
"It must have been a month ago."
"But how did you learn these particulars? You have been West that
length of time."
"I read about it in a New York paper," he answered a trifle sullenly.
"It was sent to me."
She sat with her chin in the palm of one hand, watching him from
beneath the shadow of lowered lashes, but his eyes were bent downward
at his plate.
"Are you through?" he questioned suddenly.
"Yes; this--this awful news has robbed me of all appetite."
Neither had noticed Westcott as he entered the room, but his first
glance about revealed their presence, and without an instant of
hesitancy the big miner crossed the room and approached the table where
the two were sitting.
Beaton, as though anticipating trouble, arose to his feet, but Westcott
merely drew back a vacant chair and seated himself, his eyes ignoring
the presence of the man and seeking the uplifted face of the girl
questioningly.
"I hope I do not interrupt," he said pleasantly. "I had reason to
suppose you were unacquainted with Mr. Beaton here."
"What reason?" her surprised tone slightly indignant.
"I believe the gentleman so informed me. It chanced that we had a
slight controversy last night."
"Over me?"
"Over his curiosity regarding you--who you were; your presence here."
She pushed back her chair and stood up.
"A natural curiosity enough, surely. And you felt important enough to
rebuke him on my behalf? Is that what I am to understand?"
"Why," he explained, startled by her strange manner, "I informed him
that it was none of his business, and that if he mentioned your name in
my presence again there was liable to be trouble. We scrapped it out."
"You--you scrapped it out? You mean there was a fight over me--a
barroom squabble over me?"
"Not in the barroom; in the hotel office. Beaton drew a gun, and I had
to slug him."
"But the affair originated over me--my name was brought into it?" she
insisted. "You actually threatened him because he asked about me?"
"I reckon that was about how it started," he admitted slowly. "You
see, I rather thought I was a sorter friend of yours, and that I ought
to stand up for you."
"Did--did this man say anything against me?"
"No--not exactly; he--he just asked questions."
Her eyes were scornful, angry,
"Indeed! Well, permit me to say, Mr. Westcott, that I choose my own
friends, and am perfectly competent to defend my own character. This
closes our acquaintanceship."
She moved about the end of the table, and touched Beaton's sleeve with
her fingers.
"Would you escort me to the foot of the stairs?" she asked, her voice
softening. "We will leave this belligerent individual to his own
company."
Neither of them glanced back, the girl still speaking as they
disappeared, but Westcott turned in his chair to watch them cross the
room. He had no sense of anger, no desire to retaliate, but he felt
dazed and as though the whole world was suddenly turned upside down.
So she really belonged with that outfit, did she? Well, it was a good
joke on him.
The waitress spoke to him twice before he was sufficiently aroused to
give his order.