“Thought you were safe when you knew I was dead up there in Pinecate Cañon, didn’t you?” said Ramsay, in a hollow voice. “You thought that after shooting me through the lungs you were safe, eh? But you’re not. I’ve come back to get you! Don’t move a muscle, or I’ll put a bullet through you.” His likeness to the vanished Alec Ramsay was strong—so strong that the wretched Mesquite Harrison made no query about how a ghost could shoot a rifle. This interesting conundrum was about the farthest thing from Mesquite’s mind at the moment. His distended eyes were fastened in horror upon the face of Ramsay, and now a low wail broke from him. “Leave me be, fer Gawd’s sake!” he howled. “It wasn’t me! It was Cholo Bill and Tom Emery done it—I was jest trailin’ along with ’em that day! It was Tom Emery fired that shot! Leave me be and I’ll be good—” He plumped down on his knees, and his teeth began to chatter with fright. “All right,” said Ramsay in contempt. “Get up! Turn around and walk out that door and walk out to the street. Then start going—and keep going. Head for Meteorite, and don’t stop. I’ll be right back of you until you get there. You can’t see me after we get out of town, but I’ll be there. Get going!” The unhappy Mesquite lost no time in obeying. He flung open the door, darted outside, and started for the street. Ramsay followed more leisurely. When he passed through the hotel front, he saw Mesquite standing outside, staring back, and as Ramsay appeared in his wake, the thoroughly frightened rascal uttered another howl and started for Meteorite. “Don’t ever come back here or I’ll get you!” called Ramsay, and the last he saw of Mesquite Harrison, the latter was plugging along through the snow, head down and arms going as he ran. Ramsay turned a back into the hotel office, and met the stare of Haywire. “Gosh!” said the latter. “What’d ye do to him, Puffesser?” Without replying, Ramsay went on back to his room. There he got his belongings together and carried them to the car, which was standing in the street. While he was putting them into the flivver, he saw Hassayamp appear at the front door of the hotel, yawning mightily. Ramsay jerked off his glasses and sun-helmet, and went up to Hassayamp. In the latter’s startled gaze he read instant recognition, for this was the first time Hassayamp had ever seen him without the yellow goggles. “Listen here!” said Ramsay, tapping melancholy Hassayamp on the arm and boring into him with stern gaze, “I suppose you thought that little escapade of yours back in St. John’s, Arizona, a good many years ago, had been forgotten, eh?” Hassayamp turned white. Whether or not he recognized his interlocutor as singularly like the vanished Alec Ramsay in looks, he certainly recognized the remarkable change of voice and manner in the supposed professor. Mention of St. John’s brought the pallor to his cheeks. Over his shoulder gaped Haywire, intensely interested.