reating, seemed to meet his in mute
reproach. Then the little theater was lighted, the improvised orchestra
renewed its efforts. He went quickly out and stopped at the hotel to leave
a note for Kingdon. Again he walked and lost himself in memories, seeing
as in a mirror all the incidents that had so intrigued his interest, but
which now in the light of his new understanding seemed so very patent.

Suddenly he recalled her letter still unread. That might show some motive
for her incognito and explain her arrest by Bender.

He returned to the hotel. The hour was very late. He learned that the
ranch party had long since departed and that Larry Lamont had gone to his
room.

With a queer little catch of expectancy in his throat, he held the letter
for a moment pressed tight in his hand. Then he opened it.

"TO KURT WALTERS, EX-ACTING SHERIFF.

"In taking _French_ leave, I feel that it is due you to inform you
who your prisoner really is.

"I was to the stage born. In fact, nearly stage-born, as my mother
played her part almost up to the night I made my debut in the great
game of Life. My childhood was spent mostly in the flies, and my
earliest memories are of being propped up on an impromptu, triangular
divan formed by a piece of wood stuck between two joists and covered
with cushions; of watching my mother use lip stick and other make-up
things; of hearing the warning knock and admonition: 'Thirty minutes,
Miss Lamont;' (No 'Mrs.' in stage lore, you know) and later, 'Fifteen
minutes Miss Lamont;' of her cheery response, 'Yes, Parks,' and of
her never hurrying or being flustered by the flight of time; of her
giving me a sticky kiss as the final peremptory call came. Everyone
in the company mothered me, so I was not neglected--doubtless
received too much attention. I was a very nimble kidlet, and at an
early age the stage carpenter, who had once been in a circus, taught
me to walk a taut rope and to perform acrobatic feats.

"In due course I played juvenile leads. When I attained the young and
tender grass age, I was sent away to school, my mother having been a
shrewd manager and investor. The school was equipped with a fine
gymnasium; riding and dancing academies were attached. In all of
these institutions I excelled.

"When I was sixteen, my mother died, and I went on the stage. I
didn't inherit her talent as an actress, having only mediocre
ability, but I had a c