a break of brutal suddenness, but by slow, illuminating degrees. For if
he was to carry out his idea--and there was nothing else to be
done--there must be no entanglements with such as Pancha. He must be
foot-loose and free, no woman clinging to that shaken bridle rein with
passionate, restraining hands.

Cross and dispirited he entered the hotel and mounted to his room. He
was beginning to hate it, its hideous hotel furniture, the memory of
hours of ennui spent there. Against his doorsill the evening paper lay,
and picking it up he let himself in and lighted the gas. On the mantel
the small nickel clock seemed to start out at him, insolently
proclaiming the hour, half past seven. He groaned in desperation and
cast the paper on the table. It had been folded once over, and as it
struck the marble, fell open. Across the front page in glaring black
letters he read the words,

"Knapp, the bandit, caught at Sheeps Bar."




CHAPTER XVI

THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY


That night Mayer could not sleep. He kept assuring himself there was
nothing to fear, yet he did fear. Dark possibilities rose on his
imagination--in his excitement at finding the treasure he might have
left something, some betraying mark or object. Was there any way in