The girl rose at once. "If you'll excuse me," she said, and stepped
out of the room.

"Hello, Bee. What do you think? I never saw such idiots as the police
of this town are. They're watching this house for a desperado who
assaulted some one outside. I met a sergeant on our steps. Says he
doesn't think the man's here, but there's just a chance he slipped into
the basement. It's absurd."

"Of course it is." There was a ripple of mirth in the girl's voice.
"He didn't come in by the basement at all, but walked in at the front
door."

"Who are you talking about?"

"The desperado, Dad."

"The front door!" exploded her father. "What do you mean? Who let him
in?"

"I did. He came as my guest, at my invitation."

"What?"

"Don't shout, Dad," she advised. "I thought I had brought you up
better."

"But--but--but--what do you mean?" he sputtered. "Is this ruffian in
the house now?"

"Oh, yes. He's in the Red Room here--and unless he's very deaf he
hears everything we are saying," the girl answered calmly, much amused
at the amazement of her father. "Won't you come in and see him? He
doesn't seem very desperate."

Clay rose, pinpoints of laughter dancing in his eyes. He liked the gay
audacity of this young woman, just as he liked the unconventional pluck
with which she had intruded herself into his affairs as a rescuer and
the businesslike efficiency that had got him out of his wet rags into
comfortable clothes.

A moment later he was offering a brown hand to Colin Whitford, who took
it reluctantly, with the same wariness a boxer does that of his
opponent in the ring. His eyes said plainly, "What the deuce are you
doing here, sitting in my favorite chair, smoking one of my imported
cigars, wearing my clothes, and talking to my daughter?"

"Glad to meet you, Mr. Whitford. Yore daughter has just saved my life
from the police," the Westerner said, and his friendly smile was very
much in evidence.

"You make yourself at home," answered the owner of a large per cent of
the stock of the famous Bird Cage mine.

"My guests do, Dad. It's the proof that I'm a perfect hostess,"
retorted Beatrice, her dainty, provocative face flashing to mirth.

"Hmp!" grunted her father dryly. "I'd like to know, young man, why the
police are shadowing this house?"

"I expect they're lookin' for me."

"I expect they are, and I'm not sure I won't help them find you.
You'll have to show cause if I don't."

"His