“It grieves me, seh, to find you so determined to cou't failure,” he began; and when the whistle of the upcoming Carbonate train gave him leave to go on: “Constable, you will find transpo'tation for yourself and one in the hands of the station agent. Misteh Winton, that is your train. I wish you good-morning and a pleasant journey. Come, Virginia, we shall be late to ouh breakfast.” Winton walked back to the station at the heels of his captor, cudgeling his brain to devise some means of getting word to Adams. Happily the Technologian, who had been unloading steel at the construction camp, had been told of the arrest, and when Winton reached the station he found his assistant waiting for him. But now the train was at hand and time had grown suddenly precious. Winton turned short upon the marshal. “This is not a criminal matter, Mr. Biggin: will you give me a moment with my friend?” The ex-cowboy grinned. “Bet your life I will. I ain't lovin' that old b'iler-buster in the private car none too hard.” And he went in to get the passes. “What's up?” queried Adams, forgetting his drawl for once in a way. “An arrest--trumped-up charge of trespass on that mining claim up yonder. But I've got to go to Carbonate to answer the charge and give bonds, just the same.” “Any instructions?” “Yes. When the train is out of sight and hearing, you get back over there and drive that track-laying for every foot there is in it.” Adams nodded. “I'll do it, and get myself locked up, I suppose.” “No, you won't; that's the beauty of it. The majesty of the law--all there is of it in Argentine--goes with me to Carbonate in the person of the town-marshal.” “Oh, good--succulently good! Well, so long. I'll look for you back on the evening train?” “Sure,” was the confident reply, “if the Rajah doesn't order it to be abandoned on my poor account.” Ten minutes later, when the train had gone storming on its way to Carbonate and the Rosemary party was at breakfast, the clank of steel and the chanteys of the hammermen on the other side of the canyon began again with renewed vigor. The Rajah threw up his head like a war-horse scenting the battle from afar and laid his commands upon the long-suffering secretary. “Faveh me, Jastrow. Get out there and see what they are doing, seh.” The secretary was back in the shortest possible interval, and his report was concise and business-like. “Work under full headway again, in charge of a fellow who wears a billy-cock hat and smokes cigarettes.” “Mr. Morton P. Adams,” said Virginia, recognizing the description. “Will you have him arrested too, Uncle Somerville?” But the Rajah rose hastily without replying and went to his office state-room, followed, shadow-like, by the obsequious Jastrow. It was some little time after breakfast, and Virginia and the Reverend Billy were doing a constitutional on the plank platform at the station, when the secretary came down from the car on his way to the telegraph office.