tickets for?"

"Denver."

"For Friday's train?"

"Yes. The Western Express."

That was all I wanted to know. I hurried home, procured a couple
of hastily packed bags, and took the afternoon train for the
West.



Chapter III.

A MODERN MARANA.


My journey westward was an eventful one; but this is not a
"History of Tom Jones," and I shall refrain from detail. Denver I
reached at last, after a week's stop-over in Kansas City. It was
a delightful adventure--but it had nothing to do with the story.

I left the train at the Rocky Mountain city about the middle of
the afternoon. And now, what to do? I think I am not a fool, but
I certainly lack the training of a detective, and I felt
perfectly rudderless and helpless as I ordered the taxi-driver to
take me to the Alcazar Hotel.