this week and we 'll go over things," he announced
cheerfully. "We put one over on his royal joblots that time, anyway.
Hates me from the ground up. Worst we can hope for is a conviction and
then a Supreme Court reversal. I 'll get him so mad he 'll fill the
case with errors. He used to be an instructor down at Boulder, and I
stuck the pages of a lecture together on him one day. That's why I
asked for an early trial. Knew he 'd give me a late one. That 'll let
us have time to stir up a little favorable evidence, which right now we
don't possess. Understand--all money that comes from the mine is held
in escrow until this case is decided. But I 'll explain that. Going
to stick around here and bask in the effulgence of really possessing a
case. S'long!"

And he turned back into the court room, while Fairchild, the dazed
Harry stalking beside him, started down the street.

"'Ow do you figure it?" asked the Cornishman at last.

"What?"

"Rodaine. 'E 'elped us out!"

Fairchild stopped. It had not occurred to him before. But now he saw
it: that if Rodaine, as an expert on mining, had condemned the Blue
Poppy, it could have meant only one thing, the denial of bond by the
judge and the lack of freedom for Harry. Fairchild rubbed a hand
across his brow.

"I can't figure it," came at last. "And especially since his son is
the accuser and since I got the best of them both last night!"

"Got the best of 'em? You?"

The story was brief in its telling. And it brought no explanation of
the sudden amiability displayed by the crooked-faced Rodaine. They
went on, striving vainly for a reason, at last to stop in front of the
post-office, as the postmaster leaned out of the door.

"Your name's Fairchild, isn't it?" asked the person of letters, as he
fastened a pair of gimlet eyes on the owner of the Blue Poppy.

"Yes."

"Thought so. Some of the fellows said you was. Better drop in here
for your mail once in a while. There 's been a letter for you here for
two days!"

"For me?" Vaguely Fairchild went within and received the missive, a
plain, bond envelope without a return address. He turned it over and
over in his hand before he opened it--then looked at the
postmark,--Denver. At last:

"Open it, why don't you?"

Harry's mustache was tickling his ear, as the big miner stared over his
shoulder. Fairchild obeyed. They gasped together. Before them were
figures and sentences which blurred for a mom