cigar and retired to one corner to peruse an old newspaper. It was not
so easy to read, however, for the news failed to interest or keep his
mind from wandering widely. Soon he was staring out through the
unwashed window, oblivious to everything but his own thoughts.

Who was this Beaton, and what connection could he have with Bill Lacy's
gang? The row last night had revealed a mutual interest between the
men, but what was its nature? To Westcott's judgment the burly New
Yorker did not resemble an Eastern speculator in mining property; he
was far more typical of a Bowery rough--a tool rather than an employer
in the commission of crime.

Lacy's purpose he believed he understood to some extent--a claim that
it was an extension of the La Rosita vein which Westcott had tapped in
his recent discovery. There had been bad blood between them for some
time--threats of violence, and rumours of lawsuits. No doubt Lacy
would resort to any dirty trick to get him out of the way and gain
control of the property. But he had no personal fear of Lacy: not, at
least, if he could once get the backing of Cavendish's money. But
these other people--Beaton, Miss Donovan, and still another expected to
arrive soon from the East--how were they connected with the deal?

How were they involved in the controversy? Had Lacy organised a
company and got hold of some money in New York? It might be possible,
and yet neither the man nor the woman impressed him as financiers
risking fortunes in the exploitation of mines. The problem was
unsolvable; the only thing he could do was guard his property and wait
until they showed their hand. If he could only hear from Fred
Cavendish----