t go to the door
yourself. Leave the front door open. Stand behind the end of the
piano till you are awfully sure who it is."

"What a head, Nan!"

De Spain cut off the lights, threw open the front door, and in the
darkness sat down on the piano stool. A heavy step on the porch, a
little while later, was followed by a knock on the open door.

"Come in!" called de Spain roughly. The bulk of a large man filled and
obscured for an instant the opening, then the visitor stepped
carefully over the threshold. "What do you want?" asked de Spain
without changing his tone. He awaited with keenness the sound of the
answer.

"Is Henry de Spain here?"

The voice was not familiar to de Spain's ear. He told himself the man
was unknown to him. "I am Henry de Spain," he returned without
hesitation. "What do you want?"

The visitor's deliberation was reflected in his measured speaking. "I
am from Thief River," he began, and his reverberating voice was low
and distinct. "I left there some time ago to do some work in Morgan's
Gap. I guess you know, full as well as I do, that the general office
at Medicine Bend has its own investigators, aside from the division
men. I was sent in to Morgan's Gap some time ago to find out who
burned the Calabasas barn."

"Railroad man, eh?"

"For about six years."

"And you report to----?"

"Kennedy."

De Spain paused in spite of his resolve to push the questions. While
he listened a fresh conviction had flashed across his mind. "You
called me up on the telephone one night last week," he said suddenly.

The answer came without evasion. "I did."

"I chased you across the river?"

"You did."

"You gave me a message from Nan Morgan that she never gave you."

"I did. I thought she needed you right off. She didn't know me as I
rightly am. I knew what was going on. I rode into town that evening
and rode out again. It was not my business, and I couldn't let it
interfere with the business I'm paid to look after. That's the reason
I dodged you."

"There is a chair at the left of the door; sit down. What's your
name?"

The man feeling around slowly, deposited his angular bulk with care
upon the little chair. "My name"--in the tenseness of the dark the
words seemed to carry added mystery--"is Pardaloe."

"Where from?"

"My home is southwest of the Superstition Mountains."

"You've got a brother--Joe Pardaloe?" suggested de Spain to trap him.

"No, I've got no brother. I am just plain Jim