her. There: this must
be it, she thought with a flush of inner excitement. This surely must
be the one:

"NOGALES, MEXICO. FEDERAL TROOPS OF GENERAL KOSTERLISKY, WITH AMERICAN
SOLDIERS OF FORTUNE SERVING ON STAFF OF NOTED GENERAL."

Jean had it stamped indelibly upon her brain. She waited, with a quick
intake of breath when the picture stood out with a sudden clarity
before her eyes.

A "close-up" group of officers and men,--and some of the men Americans
in face, dress, and manner. But it was one man, and one only, at whom
she looked. Tall he was, and square-shouldered and lean; with his hat
set far back on his head and a half smile curling his lips, and his
eyes looking straight into the camera. Standing there with his weight
all on one foot, in that attitude which cowboys call "hipshot." Art
Osgood! She was sure of it! Her hands clenched in her lap. Art
Osgood, at Nogales, Mexico. Serving on the staff of General
Kosterlisky. Was the man mad, to stand there publicly before the
merciless, revealing eye of a motion-picture camera? Or did his vanity
blind him to the risk he was taking?

The man at whom she sat glaring glanced sidewise at some person unseen;
and Jean knew that glance, that turn of the head. He smiled anew and
lifted his American-made Stetson a few inches above his head and held
it so in salute. Just so had he lifted and held his hat high one day,
when she had turned and ridden away from him down the trail. Jean
caught herself just as her lips opened to call out to him in
recognition and sharp reproach. He turned and walked away to where the
troopers were massed in the background. It was thus that she had first
glimpsed him for one instant before the scene ended; it was just as he
turned his face away that she had opened her eyes, and thought it was
Art Osgood who was walking away from the camera.

She waited a minute, staring abstractedly at the refugees who were
presented next. She wished that she knew when the picture had been
taken,--how long ago. Her experience with motion-picture making, her
listening to the shop-talk of the company, had taught her much; she
knew that sometimes weeks elapse between the camera's work and the
actual projection of a picture upon the theater screens. Still, this
was, in a sense, a news release, and therefore in all probability
hurried to the public. Art Osgood might still be at Nogales, Mexico,
wherever that was. He might; and Jean made up her