“Where does he get it?” Carmel asked. Bogardus shook his head. “That’s all I know. He gits it and sells it. Makes him a criminal, don’t it? Eh? What?” “It would seem to....” “Disqualifies him, don’t it?” “If I can verify what you have told me.” “Calc’late I kin fetch you proof,” said George. “Very well. Do that and he shall be disqualified.” George arose, bowed, took his cane, and moved with stateliness to the door. There he paused, turned, and smirked. “Cheerio!” he said. Here was something tangible, a commencement, a man who had seen and heard and would take his oath! It had not come in an admirable way, but it had come--had come as a direct result of the things she had printed in the paper. The end of a thread which would pass through many snarls before she could arrive at the spool, but it would arrive.... If George Bogardus knew so much, other people knew more. In Gibeon were men willing to talk if she could attract them to her. But this was slow. She felt time would not be given her laboriously to follow clues. She must overleap spaces; must arrive at something bigger then a petty bootlegger. Already, as she knew, Gibeon was aware that Deputy Jenney was deputy no longer, but sheriff, full fledged and unassailable.... She must act, and act quickly--or action would be made impossible for her. Bogardus would fetch her proof. She would not wait for Bogardus.... Impulse sat in the driver’s seat again. Lancelot Bangs was no strong man; he would not be difficult to handle. Impulse urged her to the attack. She did not stop to reason, for when one feels something must be done, it is so easy to seize upon the first matter which offers action. She was on her feet. “I’ll be back in an hour,” she called to Tubal, and stepped out upon the street. Her heart beat a trifle more quickly as she climbed the stairs to Lancelot Bangs’ photographic parlors--and as she climbed, she remembered that other visit, that mysterious conversation in the back room, overheard by her but not comprehended.... She comprehended it now. As she opened the door a bell rang somewhere in the mysterious depths of those rooms where Lancelot carried on the rites of photography, and the young man appeared, a wet print in his fingers. “Ah, Miss Lee,” he said, and preened himself. It is difficult to preen oneself with a black alpaca apron on which reaches from chest to knees, but Lancelot was conscious his shoes and necktie were visible. It gave him assurance. “I want to talk to you, Mr. Bangs,” she said. “Certainly! Certainly! Time’s your’n. Hain’t many visitors like you comes here.... Hain’t never had the pleasure of makin’ your portrait.” “I didn’t come,” said Carmel, with that disconcerting directness of which she was mistress, “to talk about photographs. I came to talk about whisky.” Lancelot reared back upon his heels and his Adam’s apple took a mighty heave upward. “Whisky?”