The convict shambled forward through the tunnel till he came to a drift which ran into it at a right angle. “Which way now?” he demanded. “I don't know.” “Don't know,” he screamed. “Didn't you just come along here? Do you want me to get lost again in this hell-hole?” The stricken fear leaped into his face. He had forgotten her danger, forgotten everything but the craven terror that engulfed him. Looking at him, she was struck for the first time with the thought that he might be on the verge of madness. His cry still rang through the tunnel when Margaret saw a gleam of distant light. She pointed it out to Struve, who wheeled and fastened his eyes upon it. Slowly the faint yellow candle-rays wavered toward them. A man was approaching through the gloom, a large man whom she presently recognized as Dunke. A quick gasp from the one beside her showed that he too knew the man. He took a dozen running steps forward, so that in his haste the candle flickered out. “That you, Miss Margaret?” the mine-owner called. Neither she nor Struve answered. The latter had stopped and was waiting tensely his enemy's approach. When he was within a few yards of the other Dunke raised his candle and peered into the blackness ahead of him. “What's the matter? Isn't it you, Miss Peggy?” “No, it ain't. It's your old pal, Nick Struve. Ain't you glad to see him, Joe?” Dunke looked him over without a word. His thin lips set and his gaze grew wall-eyed. The candle passed from right to left hand. Struve laughed evilly. “No, I'm not going to pay you that way--not yet; nor you ain't going to rid yourself of me either. Want to know why, Mr. Millionaire Dunke, what used to be my old pal? Want to know why it ain't going to do you any good to drop that right hand any closeter to your hip pocket?” Still Dunke said nothing, but the candle-glow that lit his face showed an ugly expression. “Don't you whip that gun out, Joe Dunke. Don't you! 'Cause why? If you do you're a goner.” “What do you mean?” “I mean that I kept the letter you wrote me seven years ago, and have put it where it will do you no good if anything happens to me. That's why you won't draw that gun, Joe Dunke. If you do it will send you to Yuma. Millionaire you may be, but that won't keep you from wearing stripes.” Struve's voice rang exultantly. From the look in the face of his old comrade in crime who had prospered at his expense, as he chose to think, he saw that for the time being he had got the whip-hand. There was a long silence before Dunke asked hoarsely: “What do you want?”