Twice a day, in the time whereof these things are written, the platform of the Denver Union Depot gave the incoming migrant his first true glimpse of the untrammelled West. A broad sea of planking, open to the heavens—and likewise to the world at large—was the morning and evening arena of a moving spectacle the like of which is not to be witnessed in any well-ordered railway station of the self-contained East.

Trains headed north, east, south, and west, backed across the platform and drawn apart in the midst to leave a passageway for the crowds; other trains going and coming, with shouting yard-men for outriders to clear the tracks; huge shifting pyramids of baggage piled high on tilting trucks, dividing with the moving trains the attention of the dodging multitude; the hurrying throngs imbued for the moment with the strenuous travail-spirit of the New West; these were the persons and the properties. And the shrieking safety-valves, the clanging bells, the tinnient gong of the breakfast-room, the rumbling trucks, and the under-roar of matter in motion, were the pieces in the orchestra.

It is all very different now, I am told. They have iron railings with wicket-gates and sentinels in uniform who ask to see your ticket, and a squad of policemen to keep order, and rain-sheds over the platforms (it used not to rain in the Denver I knew), and all the other appurtenances and belongings of a well-conducted railway terminus. But the elder order of disorder obtained on the autumn morning when the "Flying Kestrel" came to rest opposite the gap in the bisected trains filling the other tracks. Brockway was the first man out of the Tadmor, but the gadfly was a close second.

"No, sir; I don't intend to lose sight of you, Mr. ah—Brockway," he quavered; and he hung at the passenger agent's elbow while the latter was marshalling the party for the descent on the breakfast-room, a process which vocalized itself thus:

Brockway, handing the ladies in the debarking procession down the steps of the car: "Breakfast is ready in the dining-room. Special tables reserved for this party. Wait, and we'll all go in together. Leave your hand-baggage with the porter, unless it's something you will need during the day. Take your time; you have thirty minutes before the train leaves for Clear Creek Canyon and the Loop."

Chorus of the Personally Conducted:

"How long did you say we'd have?"

"What are they going to do with our car while we're gone?"

"Say, Mr. Passenger Agent, are you sure the baggage will be safe if we leave it with the porter?"

"What time have you now?"

"How far is it over to those mountains?"

"Oh, Mr. Brockway; won't this be a good chance to see if my trunk was put on the train with the others?"

"Say; what time did you say that Clear Creek Canyon train leaves?"

Brockway, answering the last question because the inquirer happens to be nearest at hand: "Eight o'clock."

The Querist, with his watch (which he has omitted to set back to mountain time) in his hand: "Eight o'clock? Then it's gone—it's half-past eight now! Look here."

Brockway, who is vainly endeavoring to persuade an elderly maiden lady to leave her canary in charge of the porter during the day: "That is central time you have, Mr. Tucker; mountain time is one hour slower. Careful, Mr. Perkins; let me take your grip. You won't need it to-day."

The Elderly Maiden Lady: "Now, Mr. Brockway, are you sure it'll be perfectly safe to leave Dicky with the porter?"

Mr. Somers, sotto voce in Brockway's ear: "Hang Dicky! Let's go to breakfast."

The Gadfly: "Mr. ah—Brockway, you will oblige me by sitting at my table. I don't ah—purpose to lose sight of you, sir."

Brockway, to the porter: "All out, John?"

The Porter, with the cavernous smile of his kind: "All out, sah."

Brockway, sandwiching himself between two of the unescorted ladies: "All aboard for the dining-room!"

So much Harry Quatremain, standing aloof, saw and heard, and was minded to go back to President Vennor and make his report accordingly. But the yard crew, already busily dismembering the "Flying Kestrel," whipped the Tadmor and the private car out into the yard, and the secretary was left standing in the unquiet crowd.

Having nothing better to do, he sauntered across to the depot, not intending to spy further upon the passenger agent, but rather cudgelling his brain to devise some pretext upon which he could safely lie to the President and so appease his self-respect. The pretext did not suggest itself; and after looking into the dining-room, where he saw Brockway and his thirty-odd in one corner, and the Burtons, whom he knew by sight, in another, he strolled out to the end of the building where the yard-crew was switching the Naught-fifty to its place on the short spur. The President was standing on the front platform; and Quatremain, having no plausible falsehood ready, reported the simple fact.

"Very good," said his employer. "Now go back and keep your eye on him; and, at precisely five minutes of eight, come and tell me where he is and what he is doing."

Quatremain turned on his heel and swore a clerkly oath, well smothered, to the effect that he would do nothing of the sort. It was not the first time the President had used him as a private detective, but, happily, use had not yet dulled his reluctance. None the less, he went back to the door of the dining-room and waited, and while he tarried curiosity came to keep wrath company. What was afoot that the President should be so anxious about the movements of the passenger agent? The secretary could not guess, but he determined to find out.

Three minutes before Quatremain's time-limit expired, Brockway, followed closely by a slope-shouldered old gentleman with close-set eyes, came out with Burton. He nodded to the secretary and kept on talking to the general agent. Quatremain could scarcely help overhearing.

"You can introduce yourself," he was saying; "there isn't time for any formalities. You'll find them docile enough—they haven't any kick coming with you, you know—and I'll be here to take them off your hands when you get back. No, I'll not go over to the train, unless you want me to; I'm going to the telegraph office with Mr. Jordan here, and then up-town to see our general agent about his ticket. Good-by, old man; and thank you again."

Quatremain looked at his watch. It was 7.55, to the minute, and he walked leisurely around to the private car.

"Well?" said the President, and the steady gaze of the cold eye slew the falsehood which the secretary was about to utter.

"He's in the telegraph office with one of his people," Quatremain replied, angry enough to curse himself for being so weak as to tell the truth.

"Very good. Go into my stateroom and get the mail ready. I'll come in and dictate to you presently."

The secretary obeyed as one who may not do otherwise, and left the stateroom door ajar. A moment later, he heard a tap at the door of Gertrude's room, and then the President and his daughter left the car together. Quatremain slammed down the cover of his desk, snatched his hat, and followed them. He had paid the servile price, and he would at least gratify his curiosity.

He caught sight of them in the crowd streaming out toward the Colorado Central train, and scored the first point when he observed that the President made a detour to avoid passing the open door of the telegraph office. Then he kept them in view till he saw Miss Vennor give her hand to Burton at the steps of one of the narrow-gauge cars.

At that moment, Mrs. Burton, who was comfortably established in the midst of a carful of the Tadmorians, chanced to look out of the window. She saw the President and his daughter come swiftly across the platform, saw her husband step out to meet them and shake hands with Gertrude, remarked the quick flash of glad surprise on the young girl's face, and the nervous anxiety with which the President consulted his watch, and was immediately as well apprised of the inwardness of the little plot as if she had devised it herself.

"Oh! oh!" she said to herself, with indignant emphasis; "that venerable old tyrant is turning her over to us to get her out of Fred's way! And he hasn't told her that Fred isn't going!"

Now, to the Emily Burton type of woman-kind, the marring of a plot is only less precious than the making of one. The little lady had never been known to think deeply, but a grain of swift wit is sometimes worth an infinity of tardy logic. Whatever intervened, the conclusion was clear and definite; Brockway's chance must be rescued at all hazards—and there were only two minutes in which to do it.

She scanned the throng on the platform eagerly, hoping to catch sight of him, but the faces were all strange save one. That was the face of the President's private secretary; and, without a moment's hesitation, she beckoned him.

Quatremain saw the signal, and made his way to her window, taking care to keep as many human screens as possible between himself and the group at the car steps.

"Mrs. Burton, I believe," he said, lifting his hat.

"Yes"—hurriedly. "Do you know Mr. Brockway?"

Quatremain bowed.

"Do you know where he is now?"

"Yes; he's over in the telegraph office."

"Will you take him a message from me, quickly?"

"Certainly, with pleasure."

"Then tell him I say he is going to be lost if he doesn't catch this train; he'll understand. And please hurry—there isn't a second to spare!"

Quatremain nodded, and vanished in the crowd. He understood nothing of what was toward, but he suspected that what he was about to do would somehow interfere with the President's plans, and that was sufficient to make him run when he was well out of sight. He found Brockway in the telegraph office, writing a message, with the slope-shouldered gentleman at his elbow, and delivered Mrs. Burton's message verbatim and shorn of any introduction whatsoever.

The effect on the passenger agent was surprising, if not explanatory. "Says I'm going to be—Not if I know it! I say, Tom"—flinging the pad of blanks at the operator, to call his attention—"wire anything—everything—this gentleman wants you to; I'm off!"

"But, Mr. ah—Brockway, I—I protest!" buzzed the gadfly, clutching at the passenger agent; but he was not quick enough, and when the protest was formulated, there was no one but the operator to listen to it.

The engine-bell was ringing and the train had begun to move when Brockway dashed out of the office, and the appreciative bystanders made way for him and cheered him as he sped away across the platform. It was neck-and-neck, and nothing to choose; but he was making it easily, when he collided squarely in mid career with the tall figure of the President. For a single passionate instant Mr. Francis Vennor forgot his traditions, and struck out savagely at the passenger agent. The blow caught Brockway full in the chest and made him gasp and stagger; but he gathered himself quickly, swerved aside, and ran on, catching the rear hand-rail of the last car as the train swept out of the station.