it. You may have use for it—"
"I humbly beg of you—"
"Thanks, Charlie. I don't want it. All right, Holley—"
"The pearls," suggested Chan.
"Oh, I'll be back by eight. This is more important—"
As he climbed into the flivver by Holley's side, Eden saw the front door of the ranch house open, and the huge figure of Madden framed in the doorway.
"Hey!" cried the millionaire.
"Hey yourself," muttered Eden. The editor was backing his car, and with amazing speed he swung it round. They were off down the road, the throttle wide open.
"What could have happened?" Eden asked.
"I don't know. It's a dangerous place, that old mine. Shafts sunk all over—the mouths of some of them hidden by underbrush. Shafts several hundred feet deep—"
"Faster," pleaded Eden.
"Going the limit now," Holley replied. "Madden seemed interested in your departure, didn't he? I take it you haven't given him the pearls."
"No. Something new broke tonight." Eden told of the voice over the radio. "Ever strike you that we may have been cuckoo from the start? No one even slightly damaged at the ranch, after all?"
"Quite possible," the editor admitted.
"Well, that can wait. It's Paula Wendell now."
Another car was coming toward them with reckless speed. Holley swung out, and the two cars grazed in passing.
"Who was that?" wondered Eden.
"A taxi from the station," Holley returned. "I recognized the driver. There was some one in the back seat."
"I know," said Eden. "Some one headed for Madden's ranch, perhaps."
"Perhaps," agreed Holley. He turned off the main road into the perilous, half-obliterated highway that led to the long-abandoned mine. "Have to go slower, I'm afraid," he said.
"Oh, hit it up," urged Eden. "You can't hurt old Horace Greeley." Holley again threw the throttle wide, and the front wheel on the left coming at that moment in violent contact with a rock, their heads nearly pierced the top of the car.
"It's all wrong, Holley," remarked Eden with feeling.
"What's all wrong?"
"A pretty, charming girl like Paula Wendell running about alone in this desert country. Why in heaven's name doesn't somebody marry her and take her away."
"Not a chance," replied Holley. "She hasn't any use for marriage. 'The last resort of feeble minds' is what she calls it."
"Is that so?"
"Never coop her up in a kitchenette, she told me, after the life of freedom she's enjoyed."
"Then why did she go and get engaged to this guy?"
"What guy?"
"Wilbur—or whatever his name is. The lad who gave her the ring."
Holley laughed—then was silent for a minute. "I don't suppose she'll like it," he said at last, "but I'm going to tell you anyhow. It would be a pity if you didn't find out. That emerald is an old one that belonged to her mother. She's had it put in a more modern setting, and she wears it as a sort of protection."
"Protection?"
"Yes. So every mush-head she meets won't pester her to marry him."
"Oh," said Eden. A long silence. "Is that the way she characterizes me?" asked the boy finally.
"How?"
"As a mush-head."
"Oh, no. She said you had the same ideas on marriage that she had. Refreshing to meet a sensible man like you, is the way she put it." Another long silence. "What's on your mind?" asked the editor.
"Plenty," said Eden grimly. "I suppose, at my age, it's still possible to make over a wasted life?"
"It ought to be," Holley assured him.
"I've been acting like a fool. Going to give good old dad the surprise of his life when I get home. Take over the business, like he's wanted me to, and work hard. So far, I haven't known what I wanted. Been as weak and vacillating as a—a woman."
"Some simile," replied Holley. "I don't know that I ever heard a worse one. Show me the woman who doesn't know what she wants—and knowing, fails to go after it."
"Oh, well—you get what I mean. How much farther is it?"
"We're getting there. Five miles more."
"Gad—I hope nothing's happened to her."
They rattled on, closer and closer to the low hills, brick red under the rays of the slowly rising moon. The road entered a narrow canyon, it almost disappeared, but like a homing thing Horace Greeley followed it intuitively.
"Got a flashlight?" Eden inquired.
"Yes. Why?"
"Stop a minute, and let me have it. I've an idea."
He descended with the light, and carefully examined the road ahead. "She's been along here," he announced. "That's the tread of her tires—I'd know it anywhere—I changed one of them for her. She's—she's up there somewhere, too. The car has been this way but once."
He leaped back beside Holley, and the flivver sped on, round hairpin turns, and along the edge of a precipice. Presently it turned a final corner, and before them, nestled in the hills, was the ghost city of Petticoat Mine.
Bob Eden caught his breath. Under the friendly moon lay the remnants of a town, here a chimney and there a wall, street after street of houses crumbled now to dust. Once the mine had boomed and the crowd had come, they had built their homes here where the shafts sank deep, silver had fallen in price and the crowd had gone, leaving Petticoat Mine to the most deadly bombardment of all, the patient silent bombardment of the empty years.
They rode down Main Street, weaving in and out among black gaping holes that might have been made by bursting shells. Between the cracks of the sidewalks, thronged once on a Saturday night, grew patches of pale green basket grass. Of the "business blocks" but two remained, and one of these was listing with the wind.
"Cheery sight," remarked Eden.
"The building that's on the verge of toppling is the old Silver Star Saloon," said Holley. "The other one—it never will topple. They built it of stone—built it to stand—and they needed it, too, I guess. That's the old jail."
"The jail," Eden repeated.
Holley's voice grew cautious. "Is that a light in the Silver Star?"
"Seems to be," Eden answered. "Look here—we're at rather a disadvantage—unarmed, you know. I'll just stow away in the tonneau, and appear
