ring the character of
the man, was almost certain. And this was a good reason why bankers at
Moore's Flat or Lake City might ship bullion that fatal day. Mat Bailey
nodded solemn assent, for he knew that this was sound logic.

It was now his turn to offer suggestions. A stage-driver is always a
person of importance, especially in California. For the past six days
Mat had found his public importance rather embarrassing. Every trip past
the robbers' hiding-place had brought an avalanche of questions from
curious passengers. Probably Mat Bailey had been forced to think of the
tragedy more constantly than had any other person. His opinion ought to
be valuable.

He hesitated, and seemed loath to speak his mind.

"Out with it, Mat," said Francis. "This hearing is among friends, not
official. Tell us just what you think."

"Well," replied Mat, "there is one circumstance you gentlemen ought to
know. Up to this time nobody has mentioned it; and I hate to be the
first to speak of it."

Everybody's interest was aroused. After a pause Mat continued:

"When the robber was going over the baggage he came to Mr. Cummins'
valise, and asked, 'Whose is this?' One of the passengers spoke up and
said, 'That belongs to Mr. Cummins.' Then the row began."

"Who is the guilty man?" cried Francis.

Mat looked embarrassed: "It wasn't a man. It was Miss Slocum."

There was a moment of silence. Everybody was shocked, and trying to work
out in his own mind some logical connection between the school-teacher
and the crime.

"That's where you've got us guessing, Mat," said one. "What can a crowd
of bachelors do if you drag a woman into the case?"

"And yet," said another, "what else ought we to expect? A woman's at the
bottom of everything, you know."

"Yes, we would none of us be here in this wicked world except for our
mothers," remarked the doctor sarcastically. "How has Miss Slocum been
acting since the tragedy, Mat? I must confess I can't think ill of that
girl."

"Well, Doctor," replied Mat, "she has acted just as you would expect an
innocent girl to act. She's been all broken up--down sick a good part of
the time. And I don't believe there's a man, woman, or child in Nevada
City who mourns Will Cummins more than she does. That's why I hate to
mention her name. And that's why I haven't said anything up to this
time. But some of those cowards who looked on while Cummins was murdered
have begun to talk; so you would have heard the s