Miss Christie Maclaire, attired in a soft lounging robe, her luxuriant hair wound simply about her head, forming a decidedly attractive picture, gazed with manifest dissatisfaction on the bare walls of her room, and then out through the open window into the comparatively quiet street below. The bar-tender at the “Palace,” directly opposite, business being slack, was leaning negligently in the doorway. His roving eyes caught the fair face framed in the window, and he waved his hand encouragingly. Miss Christie's big brown eyes stared across at him in silent disgust, and then wandered again about the room, her foot tapping nervously on the rag carpet.

“It's my very last trip to this town,” she said decisively, her red lips pressed tightly together.

Miss Maclaire had indeed ample reason to feel aggrieved over her reception. She had written to have the best apartment in the house reserved for her, and then, merely because she had later been invited out to Fort Hays, and was consequently a day behind in arrival, had discovered that another woman—a base imposter, actually masquerading under her name—had been duly installed in the coveted apartment. Driving in from the fort that morning, accompanied by two of the more susceptible junior officers, conscious that she had performed most artistic work the evening before in the spacious mess-hall, and feeling confident of comfortable quarters awaiting her, it had been something of a shock to be informed by the perturbed clerk that “15” was already occupied by another. “A lady what come in last night, and I naturally supposed it was you.”

In vain Miss Maclaire protested, ably backed by the worshipful officers who still gallantly attended her; the management was obdurate. Then she would go up herself, and throw the hussy out. Indeed, too angry for bantering further words, Christie had actually started for the stairs, intending to execute her threat, when the perspiring Tommy succeeded in stopping her, by plainly blurting out the exact truth.

“Don't you ever do it,” he insisted. “The marshal brought her in here, and fired a fellow out o' the room so as to give it to her. He'd clean out this house if we ran in a cold deck on a friend o' his.”

“What do I care for what your marshal does?”

“But he's Bill Hickock, Miss, 'Wild Bill.'”

Miss Maclaire leaned back against the stair-rail, her eyes turning from Tommy to her speechless supporters. Slowly the truth seemed to penetrate her brain.

“Oh,” she gasped at last. “Then—then what else can you give me?”

The officers had long since departed, promising, however, to remain over in town and hear her again that night at the Trocadero, with hints as to a late supper; she had received a call from the manager of that most popular resort, and had rendered his life miserable by numerous demands; had passed half an hour practising with the leader of the orchestra; but now was at last alone, tired, decidedly irritable, and still tempted to invade “15,” and give that other woman a piece of her mind. Then someone rapped on the door. There was a decided accent of vexation in the voice which bade the one outside enter, but the lady's mood changed swiftly as her brown eyes perceived standing in the doorway the erect form of Keith, the light from the window revealing clearly his strong face. The man stood hat in hand, bowing slightly, unable to comprehend why he should have been sent for, yet marvelling again at the remarkable resemblance between this woman and that other whom he had left at Fort Larned. As Miss Maclaire stood with back toward the window, she presented the same youthful appearance, the same slenderness of figure, the same contour of face.

“Miss Christie Maclaire?” he asked, as though in doubt.

“Yes,” graciously, won instantly by the man's appearance and manner, “you wished to see me? Will you be seated?”

He crossed the narrow room to the stiff-backed chair indicated, and the lady sank negligently down into her own, resting her head against a pillow, and regarding him expectantly. He could view her now much more distinctly, observing the slight difference in age, the fuller lips, the darker shade of the hair, and the varied expression of the eyes. It was as if a different soul looked forth from the same face. He had never before realized how little, apparently trifling, details marked the human countenance, and, embarrassed by her own scrutiny, his glance swept about the room. Misunderstanding this shifting of eyes, Miss Christie sought to place the man more at ease.

“The room is a perfect fright,” she observed briskly, “but what can one expect in these mushroom towns? Really I had never been here before, or I shouldn't have come. They pay good money though for talent, and we all have to live, you know. Are—are you in professional work?”

He shook his head, smiling, somewhat perplexed at his reception.

“Really I didn't suppose you were,” she went on, “you don't look it. But there are so many who come to me to help them, that I have grown suspicious of every stranger. May I ask why you desired to see me?”

Another suspicion had taken possession of her mind, for the men of that section were never backward in exhibiting admiration, yet somehow this man did not seem exactly of that kind.

“I came merely because I was sent for, Miss Maclaire,” he replied, his gray eyes once again upon her face. “Doctor Fairbain gave me your message; I am Jack Keith.”

She looked the complete astonishment she felt, sitting up in the chair, her eyes filled with questioning doubt.

“Doctor Fairbain! My message! Surely you are mistaken? I know no one of that name, and have sent no message.”

“You did not express a desire to see me?”

She laughed, exhibiting a row of white teeth.

“Certainly not; not until this moment was I even of the existence of Mr. Jack Keith.”

His own eyes smiled in response to the challenge of hers.

“I can assure you the surprise was mine also,” he hastened to inform her, now more at ease, as he grasped the situation. “I could not understand how I had become known to you, yet I pledge you my word the message was actually brought. Of course you may suspicion otherwise, for I have seen you on the stage, and being a normal man, have wished that I could devise some excuse for meeting you.”

“Indeed!” her eye-brows slightly uplifted.

“Yes, I make that confession frankly, yet this call comes from no such desire. I had no question when I came, but what I had been sent for—you will believe this?”

“I suppose I must, yet it seems very peculiar,” she replied, feeling convinced that he was a gentleman, and troubled as to what she had best do. “Yet now that you have discovered your mistake—”

“I hope to take advantage of the opportunity,” he broke in firmly, leaning slightly forward. “May I ask you a question?”

“I could hardly prevent it, and really I do not know that I have anything to conceal.”

“Then I will risk the effort—do you know a man named Hawley?—Bartlett Hawley?”

Her eyes did not falter, although a red spot shot into her cheeks, and her lips pressed together.

“No; that is I have never met him,” she acknowledged, just a trifle confused. “But I have received two letters signed by that name, and rather expected the gentleman would call upon me here in Sheridan during my engagement. Is that your mission? Were you sent by him? or are you Mr. Hawley?”

“I disclaim all relation, Miss Maclaire, even friendship. You, of course, know who this individual is?”

“No,” the short monosyllable was not encouraging. “His messages were of a business character.”

“So I presumed, yet one likes to know something even of the person he does business with. I have been acquainted with Hawley for several years, and have never been aware of any honorable business he has ever engaged in. He is a professional gambler, known on the frontier as 'Black Bart'; last night he was running a faro game across there in the 'Palace.' I cannot help wondering what kind of business such a fellow could possibly have with you, Miss Maclaire.”

The woman's eyes flashed, hardening in their brown depths.

“What right have you to ask?” she began indigently. “I am capable of deciding my own affairs. As I have told you I have never met Mr. Hawley, but I am not to be influenced against him merely by the denunciation of an avowed enemy. He has written me of something he has discovered which is of deep personal interest to me, and has promised to tell me the details, as well as place within my hands certain necessary papers.”

“I appreciate your feelings,” he said gently, as she paused, “but would you mind telling me the nature of those papers?”

There was something in Keith's face which told of honesty, and inspired confidence. Miss Maclaire's worldly experience had given her deep insight into the character of men, and somehow, as she looked into the clear gray eyes, she felt impelled to answer, a vague doubt of the unknown Hawley in her mind.

“They—they were papers to establish identity. He had discovered them by accident; they have to do with an inheritance. Really that is all I know, for he wrote very briefly, stating it would be safer to confer with me personally—only I imagine there is a large sum involved.”

“From whose estate?”

“My grandfather's.”

“And his name was?”

“Why—why, Mr. Keith, actually I do not know. It may seem strange, but—but I cannot even tell the names of my parents; I cannot remember either my father or mother. Oh, I do not know why I should tell you all this! Who are you, really? Why do you ask me such questions?”

He leaned forward, touched by the woman's emotion. “Miss Maclaire,” he said gravely. “I am not prying into your life needlessly, but am endeavoring to serve you as well as others. Hawley may indeed possess papers of great value, but if so they were not found by accident, but stolen from the body of a murdered man. These papers may possibly refer to you, but if so Hawley himself does not believe it—he has simply chosen you to impersonate the right party because of physical resemblance.”

“Resemblance to whom?”

“To a young woman, a Miss Hope.”

“But how do you know this? Why should you be interested? Are you a detective?”

“No, I am not a detective, but I cannot explain to you my interest. I am trying to serve you, to keep you from being drawn into a plot—”

“Rather to keep me from learning the truth, Mr. Jack Keith,” she burst forth, rising to her feet indignantly. “You are here trying to prejudice me against Mr. Hawley. He is your enemy, and you have come to me stabbing him in the back for revenge. That is your interest. Well, I am going to see the man, and consider what he has to say. I don't care half so much about the money as I do to find out who I am. If he can throw any light on my early life, on my parentage, I shall be the happiest woman in the world. I am sorry I told you anything—but I am going to see him just the same. Perhaps he might tell me something about you.”

They were both standing, the woman's eyes flashing angrily, defiantly, her hands clinched. Keith, realizing the false position into which he had drifted, hesitated to answer. He meant to tell her the whole story and urge her to cooperate with him in learning the gambler's purpose. The woman impressed him as honest at heart, in spite of her life and environment; she was not one whom a swindler could easily dupe into becoming a tool.

“Miss Maclaire,” he began, determined on his course, “listen to me for just a moment. I am—”

There was a rap at the door. The eyes of both turned that way, and then Keith backed slowly into the darkened corner beyond the window, his right hand thrust into the pocket of his coat. Miss Maclaire observed the movement, her lips smiling, a red flush on either cheek. Then she stepped across the root, and opened the door. Framed against the black background of the hall, his dark, rather handsome face clearly revealed as he fronted the window, his black, audacious eyes fixed appreciatingly upon the lady, stood “Black Bart” Hawley. He saw no one but her, realized no other presence, had no thought except to make a good impression. He was facing a beautiful woman, whom he sought to use, and he bowed low, hat in hand.

“Miss Maclaire,” he said, pleasantly, “I trust you will pardon all that has occurred between us, and permit me to explain.”

“I—I do not understand,” she replied, puzzled by these unexpected words. “There has nothing occurred between us, I am sure, which requires explanation. Have we met before?”

The man smiled. Seeing the woman's face in the shadows he was still convinced she was the same he had last parted with on the Salt Fork. However, if she preferred to ignore all that, and begin their relations anew, it was greatly to his liking. It gave him insight into her character, and fresh confidence that he could gain her assistance. Anyhow, he was ready enough to play her game.

“Let us assume not,” just the slightest trace of mockery in the tone, “and begin anew. At least, you will confess the receipt of my letters—I am Bartlett Hawley.”

She cast a half-frightened glance toward Keith, and the man, following the direction of her eyes, perceived the presence of the other. His right leg went backward, his hand dropping to the belt, his form stiffening erect. Keith's voice, low but clear in the silence, seemed to cut the air.

“Not a motion, Hawley! I have you covered.”

“Oh, gentlemen, please don't!”

“Have no fear, Miss Maclaire; this man and I will settle our differences elsewhere, and not in your presence.” He stepped forth into the middle of the room, revolver drawn, but held low at the hip, his watchful eyes never deserting the gambler's face.

“Back up against the wall, Hawley,” he commanded. “I hardly need to tell you how I shoot, for we, at least, have met before. Now, I'm going out, and leave you to your interview with Miss Maclaire, and I wish you happiness and success.”

He moved across to the opening, keeping his face toward his adversary; then backed out slowly, closed the door with a snap, and sprang aside to avoid any possibility of a bullet crashing after him. No sound of movement from within reached his ears, however, and he walked silently to the head of the stairs.