Keith swept his glance up and down the street without results. Surely, Hawley and his companion could not have disappeared so suddenly. They had turned to the right, he was certain as to that, and he pushed through the crowd of men around the theatre entrance, and hastened to overtake them. He found nothing to overtake—nowhere along that stretch of street, illumined by window lights, was there any sign of a man and woman walking together. He stopped bewildered, staring blindly about, failing utterly to comprehend this mysterious vanishing. What could it mean? What had happened? How could they have disappeared so completely during that single moment he had waited to speak to Fairbain? The man's heart beat like a trip-hammer with apprehension, a sudden fear for Hope taking possession of him. Surely the girl would never consent to enter any of those dens along the way, and Hawley would not dare resort to force in the open street. The very thought seemed preposterous, and yet, with no other supposition possible, he entered these one after the other in hasty search, questioning the inmates sharply, only to find himself totally baffled—Hawley and Hope had vanished as though swallowed by the earth. He explored dark passage-ways between the scattered buildings, rummaging about recklessly, but came back to the street again without reward.

Could they have gone down the other side, in the deeper shadows, and thus reached the hotel more quickly than it seemed to him possible? There was hardly a chance that this could be true, and yet Keith grasped at it desperately, cursing himself for having wasted time. Five minutes later, breathless, almost speechless with anxiety, he startled the clerk.

“Has Miss Waite come in? Miss Hope Waite?”

“Blamed if I know,” retorted the other, indifferently. “Can't for the life of me tell those two females apart. One of them passed through 'bout ten minutes ago; Doc Fairbain was with her. Another party just went upstairs hunting Miss Maclaire, and as they haven't come down, I reckon it must have been her—anything wrong?”

“I'm not sure yet,” shortly. “Who was this other person?”

“Old fellow with white hair and whiskers—swore like a pirate—had the sheriff along with him.”

It came to Keith in a flash—it was Waite. Perhaps Christie knew. Perhaps the General knew. Certainly something of importance was crystallizing in the actress' room which might help to explain all else. He rushed up the stairs, barely waiting to rap once at the closed door before he pressed it open. The sight within held him silent, waiting opportunity to blurt out his news. Here, also, was tragedy, intense, compelling, which for the instant seemed to even overshadow the fate of the girl he loved. There were three men present, and the woman. She stood clutching the back of a chair, white-faced and open-eyed, with Fairbain slightly behind her, one hand grasping her arm, the other clinched, his jaw set pugnaciously. Facing these two was Waite, and a heavily built man wearing a brown beard, closely trimmed.

“You'd better acknowledge it,” Waite snapped out, with a quick glance at the newcomer. “It will make it all the easier for you. I tell you this is the sheriff, and we've got you both dead to rights.”

“But,” she urged, “why should I be arrested? I have done nothing.”

“You're an adventuress—a damn adventuress—Hawley's mistress, probably—a—”

“Now, see here, Waite,” and Fairbain swung himself forward, “you drop that. Miss Maclaire is my friend, and if you say another word I'll smash you, sheriff or no sheriff.”

Waite glared at him.

“You old fool,” he snorted, “what have you got to do with this?”

“I've got this to do with it, you'll find—the woman is to be treated with respect or I'll blow your damned obstinate head off.”

The sheriff laid his hand on Waite's shoulder.

“Come,” he said, firmly, “this is no way to get at it. We want to know certain facts, and then we can proceed lawfully. Let me question the woman.”

The two older men still faced one another belligerently, but Keith saw Christie draw the doctor back from between her and the sheriff.

“You may ask me anything you please,” she announced, quietly. “I am sure these gentlemen will not fight here in my room.”

“Very well, Miss Maclaire. It will require only a moment. How long have you known this man Hawley?”

“Merely a few days—since I arrived in Sheridan.”

“But you were in communication with him before that?”

The pleasant voice and quiet demeanor of the sheriff seemed to yield the girl confidence and courage.

“Yes, he had written me two or three letters.”

“You met him here then by appointment?”

“He was to come to Sheridan, and explain to me more fully what his letters had only hinted at.”

“You possessed no previous knowledge of his purpose?”

“Only the barest outline—details were given me later.”

“Will you tell us briefly exactly what Hawley told you?”

The girl's bewildered eyes wandered from face to face, then returned to the waiting sheriff.

“May—may I sit down?” she asked.

“Most certainly; and don't be afraid, for really we wish to be your friends.”

She sank down into the chair, and even Keith could see how her slender form trembled. There was a moment's silence.

“Believe me, gentlemen,” she began, falteringly, “if there is any fraud, any conspiracy, I have borne no conscious part in it. Mr. Hawley came to me saying a dying man had left with him certain papers, naming one, Phyllis Gale, as heiress to a very large estate in North Carolina, left by her grandfather in trust. He said the girl had been taken West, when scarcely two years old, by her father in a fit of drunken rage, and then deserted by him in St. Louis.”

“You—you saw the papers?” Waite broke in.

“Yes, those that Hawley had; he gave them to me to keep for him.” She crossed to her trunk, and came back, a manilla envelope in her hand. Waite opened it hastily, running his eyes over the contents.

“The infernal scoundrel!” he exclaimed, hotly. “These were stolen from me at Carson City.”

“Let me see them.” The sheriff ran them over, merely glancing at the endorsements.

“Just as you represented, Waite,” he said, slowly. “A copy of the will, your commission as guardian, and memoranda of identification. Well, Miss Maclaire, how did you happen to be so easily convinced that you were the lost girl?”

“Mr. Hawley brought me a picture which he said was of this girl's half-sister; the resemblance was most startling. This, with the fact that I have never known either father or mother or my real name, and that my earlier life was passed in St. Louis, sufficed to make me believe he must be right.”

“You—you—” Waite choked, leaning forward.

“You don't know your real name?”

“No, I do not,” her lips barely forming the words. “The woman who brought me up never told me.”

“Who—who was the woman?”

“A Mrs. Raymond—Sue Raymond—she was on the stage, and died in Texas—San Antonio, I think.”

Waite swore audibly, his eyes never once deserting the girl's face.

“Hawley told you to say that?”

“No, he did not,” she protested warmly. “It was never even mentioned between us—at least, not Sue Raymond's name. What difference can that make?”

He stepped forward, one hand flung out, and Fairbain sprang forward instantly between them, mistaking the action.

“Hands off there, Waite,” he commanded sternly. “Whatever she says goes.”

“You blundering old idiot,” the other exploded. “I'm not going to hurt her; stand aside, will you!”

He reached the startled girl, thrust aside the dark hair combed low over the neck, swung her about toward the light, and stared at a birthmark behind her ear. No one spoke, old Waite seemingly stricken dumb, the woman shrinking away from him as though she feared he was crazed.

“What is it?” asked the sheriff, sternly.

Slowly Waite turned about and faced him, running the sleeve of his coat across his eyes. He appeared dazed, confounded.

“My God, it's all right,” he said, with a choke in the throat. “She's—she's the girl.”

Christie stared at him, her lips parted, unable to grasp what it all meant.

“You mean I—I am actually Phyllis Gale? That—that there is no mistake?”

He nodded, not yet able to put It more clearly into words. She swayed as though about to faint, and Fairbain caught her, but she slipped through his arms, and fell upon her knees, her face buried in her hands upon the chair.

“Oh, thank God,” she sobbed, “thank God! I know who I am! I know who I am!”