New York. Nobody knows what his business is, but he is hand-in-glove
with Bill Lacy and his gang. Lacy, besides running a saloon, pretends to
be a mining speculator, but it is my opinion there is nothing he wouldn't
do for money, if he considered the game safe. And now, with everything
quiet in the East, and no thought that there is any suspicion remaining,
Beaton sends for the woman to join him here. Why? Because there is some
job to be done too big for him to tackle alone. He's merely a gunman; he
can do the strong-arm stuff, all right, but lacks brains. There is a
problem out here requiring a little intellect; and it is my guess it is
how to dispose of Cavendish until they can get away safely with the swag."

"Exactly! That would be a stake worth playing for."

"It certainly would; and, as I figure it out, that is their game. John
Cavendish is merely the catspaw. Right now there is nothing for them to
do but wait until the boy gets full possession of the property; then
they'll put the screws on him good and proper. Meantime Frederick must
be kept out of sight--must remain dead."

"I wonder how this was ever planned out--if it be true?"

"It must have originated in some cunning, criminal brain," he admitted
thoughtfully. "Not Beaton's, surely; and, while she is probably much
brighter, I am inclined to think the girl is merely acting under orders.
There is somebody connected with this scheme higher up--a master
criminal."

Miss Donovan was no fool; newspaper work had taught her to suspect men of
intellect, and that nothing, however wicked, low or depraved, was beyond
them.