the
trick--and he doesn't come through. And nobody writes. I guess it's
me for the Prodigal, but when I do get next to the fatted calf I'll get
inside and eat my way out by way of his hoofs and horns. Why couldn't
you and Searle and the maid come down and have a look at me--working?
_It's worth it_. Come on. Maybe it's easier than writing. Yours for
the rights of labor, GLEN."

Astonished by the contents of this communication, Beth read it again,
in no little bewilderment, to make sure she had made no mistake. No
letter from herself? No word from Searle? No answer to Glen's request
for money? And he had only asked for a "few odd dollars?" There must
be something wrong. He had sent the most urgent requirement for sixty
thousand dollars. And she herself had written, at once. Searle had
assured her he had sent him word by special messenger. Starlight was
less than a long day's ride away. Glen had already had time to see
that account in the paper and write.

She had no suspicions of Bostwick. She had seen Glen's letter and read
it for herself. And Searle had responded immediately with an offer to
lend her brother thirty thousand dollars. There must be some mistake.
Glen might be keeping his news and plans from herself, as men so often
will. Searle might even have overlooked the importance of keeping Glen
fully posted, intending to go so soon to Starlight. Her own letter
might have miscarried.

She tried to fashion explanations--but they would not entirely fit.
Searle had been gone three days. He had gone before the Goldite _News_
was issued. The paper had arrived at Glen's while the man in his car
had failed.

For a moment she sickened with the reflection that Searle might once
more have fallen captive to the convicts, still at large--and with all
the money! Then she presently assured herself that news so sinister as
this would have been very prompt to return.

It was all too much to understand--unless Glen were ill--or out of his
reason. His two letters, the one to Searle and this one to herself,
were so utterly conflicting. It was not to be solved from such a
distance. Moreover, Glen wrote that he was off on a trip, and asked
her to wait before replying. It was irritating, all this waiting,
alone here in Goldite, but there seemed to be nothing else to do.

The long morning passed, and she fretted. In the afternoon the Goldite
_News_ broke its record. It printed an extra--a sing