Hue and cry, hubbub and mystery, swept the Isle of Arcady that morning, but the most painstaking search and query proved fruitless. It developed beyond doubt that the football man had not been seen since his one brief appearance on the ballroom floor. Search was transferred to the mainland, where, as it neared noon, Lake’s perseverance and thoroughness were rewarded. In Chihuahua suburb, beyond the north wall, Lake noted a sweat-marked, red-roan horse in the yard of Rosalio Marquez, better known, by reason of his profession, as Monte.

Straightway the banker reported this possible clue to the sheriff and to Billy, who was as tireless and determined in the chase as Lake himself. The other masqueraders had mostly abandoned the chase. He found them on the bridge of the La Luz sallyport.

“It may be worth looking into,” Lake advised the sheriff. “Better send some one to reconnoiter—some one not known to be connected with your office. You go, Billy. If you find anything suspicious the sheriff can ’phone to the hospital if he needs me. I’m going over to see how the old watchman is—ought to have gone before. If he gets well I must do something handsome for him.”

Billy fell in with this request. He had a well-founded confidence in Lake’s luck and attached much more significance to the trifling matter of the red-roan horse than did the original discoverer—especially since the discoverer had bethought himself to go to the hospital on an errand of mercy. Billy now confidently expected early developments. And he preferred personally to conduct the arrest, so that he might interfere, if necessary, to prevent any wasting of good cartridges. He did not expect much trouble, however, providing the affair was conducted tactfully; reasoning that a dead game sport with a clean conscience and a light heart would not seriously object to a small arrest. Poor Billy’s own heart was none of the lightest as he went on this loyal service to his presumably favored rival.

Bicycle-back, he accompanied the sheriff beyond the outworks to the Mexican quarter. Near the place indicated by the banker Billy left his wheel and strolled casually round the block. He saw the red-roan steed and noted the Double Rainbow branded on his thigh.

Monte was leaning in the adobe doorway, rolling a cigarette. Billy knew him, in a business way.

“Hello, Monte! Good horse you’ve got there.”

“Yais—tha’s nice hor-rse,” said Monte.

“Want to sell him?”

“Thees ees not my hor-rse,” explained Monte. “He ees of a frien’.”

“I like his looks,” said Billy. “Is your friend here? Or, if he’s downtown, what’s his name? I’d like to buy that horse.”

“He ees weetheen, but he ees not apparent. He ees dormiendo—ah—yais—esleepin’. He was las’ night to the baile mascarada.”

Billy nodded. “Yes; I was there myself.” He decided to take a risk: assuming that his calculations were correct, x must equal Bransford. So he said carelessly: “Let’s see, Bransford went as a sailor, didn’t he? Un marinero?”

“Oh, no; he was atir-re’ lak one—que cosa?—what you call thees theeng?—un balon para jugar con los pies? Ah! si, si!—one feetball! Myself I come soon back. I have no beesness. The bes’ people ees all for the dance,” said Monte, with hand turned up and shrugging shoulder. “So, media noche—twelve of the clock, I am here back. I fin’ here the hor-rse of my frien’, and one carta—letter—that I am not to lock the door; porque he may come to esleep. So I am mek to r-repose myself. Later I am ar-rouse when my frien’ am to r-retir-re heemself. Ah, que hombre! I am yet to esmile to see heem in thees so r-redeeculous vestidos! He ees ver’ gay. Ah! que Jeff! Een all ways thees ees a man ver’ sufficiente, cour-rageous, es-trong, formidabble! Yet he ees keep the disposicion, the hear-rt, of a seemple leetle chil’—un muchacho!”

“I’ll come again,” said Billy, and passed on. He had found out what he had come for. The absence of concealment dispelled any lingering doubt of Jeff Buttinski. Yet he could establish no alibi by Monte.

Perhaps Billy White may require here a little explanation. All things considered, Billy thought Jeff would be better off in jail, with a friend in the opposite camp working for his interest, than getting himself foolishly killed by a hasty posse. If we are cynical, we may say that, being young, Billy was not averse to the rÔle of deus ex machina; perhaps a thought of friendly gratitude was not lacking. Then, too, adventure for adventure’s sake is motive enough—in youth. Or, as a final self-revelation, we may hint that if Jeff was a rival, so too was Lake—and one more eligible. Let us not be cynical, however, or cowardly. Let us say at once shamelessly what we very well know—that youth is the season for clean honor and high emprise; that boy’s love is best and truest of all; that poor, honest Billy, in his own dogged and fantastic way, but sought to give true service where he—loved. There, we have said it; and we are shamed. How old are you, sir? Forty? Fifty? Most actions are the result of mixed motives, you say? Well, that is a notable concession—at your age. Let it go at that. Billy, then, acted from mixed motives.

When Billy brought back his motives—and the sheriff—Monte still held his negligent attitude in the doorway. He waved a graceful salute.

“I want to see Bransford,” said the sheriff.

“He ees esleepin’,” said Monte.

“Well, I want to see him anyway!” The sheriff laid a brusk hand on the gatelatch.

Monte waved his cigarette airily, flicked the ash from the end with a slender finger, and once more demonstrated that the hand is quicker than the eye. The portentously steady gun in the hand was the first intimation to the eye that the hand had moved at all. It was a very large gun as to caliber, the sheriff noted. As it was pointed directly at his nose he was favorably situated to observe—looking along the barrel—that the hammer stood at full cock.

“Per-rhaps you have some papers for heem?” suggested Monte, with gentle and delicate deference. He still leaned against the doorjamb. “But eef not eet ees bes’ that you do not enter thees my leetle house to distur-rb my gues’. That would be to commeet a r-rudeness—no?”

The sheriff was a sufficiently brave man, if not precisely a brilliant one. Yet he showed now intelligence of the highest order. He dropped the latch.

“You Billy, stop your laughing! Do you know, Mr. Monte, I think you are quite right?” he observed, with a smiling politeness equal to Monte’s own. “That would be rude, certainly. My mistake. An Englishman’s house is his castle—that sort of thing? If you will excuse me now we will go and get the papers, as you so kindly pointed out.”

They went away, the sheriff, Billy and motives—Billy still laughing immoderately.

Monte went inside and stirred up his guest with a prodding boot-toe.

“Meester Jeff,” he demanded, “what you been a-doin’ now?”

Jeff sat up, rumpled his hair, and rubbed his eyes.

“Sleepin’,” he said.

“An’ before? Porque, the sheriff he has been. To mek an arres’ of you, I t’eenk.”

“Me?” said Jeff, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “I haven’t done anything that I can remember now!”

“Sure? No small leetle cr-rime? Not las’ night? Me, I jus’ got up. I have not hear’.”

Jeff considered this suggestion carefully. “No. I am sure. Not for years. Some mistake, I guess. Or maybe he just wanted to see me about something else. Why didn’t he come in?”

“I mek r-reques’ of heem that he do not,” said Monte.

“I see,” Jeff laughed. “Come on; we’ll go see him. You don’t want to get into trouble.”

They crossed the bridge and met the sheriff just within the fortifications, returning in a crowded automobile. Jeff held up his hand. The machine stopped and the posse deployed—except Billy, who acted as chauffeur.

“You wanted to see me, sheriff—at the hotel?”

“Why, yes, if you don’t mind,” said the sheriff.

“Good dinner? I ain’t had breakfast yet!”

“First-class,” said the sheriff cordially. “Won’t your friend come too?”

“Ah, seÑor, you eshame me that I am not so hospitabble, ees eet not?” purred Monte, as he followed Jeff into the tonneau.

The sheriff reddened and Billy choked.

“Nothing of the sort,” said the sheriff hastily, lapsing into literalness. “You were quite within your rights. For that matter, I know you were at your own bank, dealing, when the crime was committed. I am holding you for the present as a possible accessory; and, if not, then as a material witness. By the way, Monte, would you mind if I sent some men to look through your place? There is a matter of some thirty thousand dollars missing. Lake asked us to look for it. I have papers for it if you care to see them.”

“Oh, no, seÑor!” said Monte. He handed over a key. “La casa es suyo!”

“Thank you,” said the sheriff, with unmoved gravity. “Anything of yours you want ’em to bring, Bransford?”

“Why, no,” said Jeff cheerfully. “I’ve got nothing there but my saddle, my gun and an old football suit that belongs to ’Gene Baird, over on the West Side; but if you want me to stay long, I wish you’d look after my horse.”

“I too have lef’ there my gun that I keep to protec’ my leetle house,” observed Monte. “Tell some one to keep eet for me. I am much attach’ to that gun.”

“Why, yes, I have seen that gun, I think,” said the sheriff. “They’ll look out for it. All right, Billy!”

The car turned back.

“Oh—you were speaking about Monte being an accessory. I didn’t get in till ’way late last night, and I’ve been asleep all day,” said Jeff apologetically. “Might I ask before or after exactly what fact Monte was an accessory?”

“Bank robbery, for one thing.”

“Ah!... That would be Lake’s bank? Anything else?”

The sheriff was not a patient man and he had borne much; also, he liked Lars Porsena. Perfection, even in trifles, is rare and wins affection. He turned on Jeff, with an angry growl.

“Murder!”

“Lake?” murmured Jeff hopefully.

The sheriff continued, ignoring and, indeed, only half sensing the purport of Jeff’s comment:

“At least, the wound may not be mortal.”

“That’s too bad,” said Jeff. He was, if possible, more cheerful than ever.

The sheriff glared at him. Billy, from the front seat, threw a word of explanation over his shoulder. “It’s not Lake. The watchman.”

“Oh, old Lars Porsena? That’s different. Not a bad sort, Lars. Maybe he’ll get well. Hope so.... And I shot him? Dear me! When did it happen?”

“You’ll find out soon enough!” said the sheriff grimly. “Your preliminary’s right away.”

“Hell, I haven’t had breakfast yet!” Jeff protested. “Feed us first or we won’t be tried at all.”

---

Within the jail, while the sheriff spoke with his warder, it occurred to Billy that, since Jimmy Phillips was not to be seen, he might as well carry his own friendly message. So he said guardedly:

“Buck up, old man! Keep a stiff upper lip and be careful what you say. This is only your preliminary trial, remember. Lots of things may happen before court sets. The devil looks after his own, you know.”

Jeff had a good ear for voices, however, and Billy’s mustache still kept more than a hint of Mephistopheles. Jeff slowly surveyed Billy’s natty attire, with a lingering and insulting interest for such evidences of prosperity as silken hosiery and a rather fervid scarfpin. At last his eye met Billy’s, and Billy was blushing.

“Does he?” drawled Jeff languidly. “Ah!... You own the car, then?”

Poor Billy!

Notwithstanding the ingratitude of this rebuff, Billy sought out Jimmy Phillips and recounted to him the circumstances of the arrest.

“Oh, naughty, naughty!” said the deputy, caressing his nose. “Lake’s been a cowman on Rainbow. He knew the brand on that horse; he knew Jeff was chummy with Monte. He knew in all reason that Jeff was in there, and most likely he knew it all the time. So he sneaks off to see Lars—after shooting him from ambush, damn him!—and sends you to take Jeff. Looks like he might be willing for you and Jeff to damage either, which or both of yourselves, as the case may be.”

“It looks so,” said Billy.

“Must be a fine girl!” murmured Jimmy absently. “Well, what are you going to do? It looks pretty plain.”

“It looks plain to us—but we haven’t got a single tangible thing against Lake yet. We’d be laughed out of court if we brought an accusation against him. We’ll have to wait and keep our eyes open.”

“You’re sure Lake did it? There was no rubber nosepiece at Monte’s house. All the rest of the football outfit—but not that. That looks bad for Jeff.”

“On the contrary, that is the strongest link against Lake. I dare say Buttinski—Mr. Bransford—is eminently capable of bank robbery at odd moments; but I know approximately where that noseguard was at sharp midnight—after the watchman was shot.” Here Billy swore mentally, having a very definite guess as to how Jeff might have lost the noseguard. “Lake, Clarke, Turnbull, Thompson, Alec or myself—one of the six of us—brought that noseguard to the bank after the robbery, and only one of the six had a motive—and a key.”

“Only one of you had a key,” corrected Jimmy cruelly. “But can’t Jeff prove where he was, maybe?”

“He won’t.”

“I’d sure like to see her,” said Jimmy.

---

CHAPTER X