There was a pause, while the two men measured each other. “Now, Cotton,” began the prisoner, “you pictured the scene at my trial. Let me carry on the story for you. You have your case all framed up, your hand-picked jury in the box, and your hand-picked judge on the bench, your hand-picked prosecuting-attorney putting through the job; you are ready to send your victim to prison, for an example to the rest of your employés. But suppose that, at the climax of the proceedings, you should make the discovery that your victim is a person who cannot be sent to prison?” “Cannot be sent to prison?” repeated the other. His tone was thoughtful. “You’ll have to explain.” “Surely not to a man of your intelligence! Don’t you know, Cotton, there are people who cannot be sent to prison?” The camp-marshal smoked his cigar for a bit. “There are some in this county,” said he. “But I thought I knew them all.” “Well,” said Hal, “has it never occurred to you that there might be some in this _state_?” There followed a long silence. The two men were gazing into each other’s eyes; and the more they gazed, the more plainly Hal read uncertainty in the face of the marshal. “Think how embarrassing it would be!” he continued. “You have your drama all staged--as you did the night before last--only on a larger stage, before a more important audience; and at the _dénouement_ you find that, instead of vindicating yourself before the workers in North Valley, you have convicted yourself before the public of the state. You have shown the whole community that you are law-breakers; worse than that--you have shown that you are jack-asses!” This time the camp-marshal gazed so long that his cigar went out. And meantime Hal was lounging in his chair, smiling at him strangely. It was as if a transformation was taking place before the marshal’s eyes; the miner’s “jumpers” fell away from Hal’s figure, and there was a suit of evening-clothes in their place! “Who the devil are you?” cried the man. “Well now!” laughed Hal. “You boast of the efficiency of your secret service department! Put them at work upon this problem. A young man, age twenty-one, height five feet ten inches, weight one hundred and fifty-two pounds, eyes brown, hair chestnut and rather wavy, manner genial, a favourite with the ladies--at least that’s what the society notes say--missing since early in June, supposed to be hunting mountain-goats in Mexico. As you know, Cotton, there’s only one city in the state that has any ‘society,’ and in that city there are only twenty-five or thirty families that count. For a secret service department like that of the ‘G. F. C.’, that is really too easy.” Again there was a silence, until Hal broke it. “Your distress is a tribute to your insight. The company is lucky in the fact that one of its camp-marshals happens to be an ex-gentleman.” Again the other flushed. “Well, by God!” he said, half to himself; and then, making a last effort to hold his bluff--“You’re kidding me!”