A few moments later Sucatash and Dave Mackay stalked on their high heels up the stairs and into the alcove of the mezzanine balcony, holding their broad hats in their hands. Sucatash gulped as mademoiselle's slender figure confronted him, and Dave's mouth fell open. Behind them lurched another man, slinking in the background. "What is it, messieurs?" asked Solange, her voice once more clear and sweet. The cow-punchers blushed in unison. "This here Mr. Delonny done sent us here to see you, ma'am. He allows you-all wants a couple of hands for this trip you're takin' into the Esmeraldas. He likewise instigates us to corral this here horned toad, Banker, who's a prospector, because he says you'll want to see him about some mine or other, and, Banker, he don't know nothing about nothing but lookin' for mines: which he ain't never found a whole lot, I reckon, none whatever." Solange smiled and her smile, even with veiled face, was something to put these bashful range riders at their ease. Both of them felt warmed to their hearts. "I am very glad to see you," she said. "It is true that I require help, and I shall be glad of yours. It is kind of you to enter my employ." Dave uttered a protest. "Don't you mention it, mad'moiselle. Sucatash and me was both in France and, while we can't give that there country any rank ahead of the U. S. A., we hands it to her frank, that any time we can do anything fer a mad'moiselle, we does it pronto! We're yours, ma'am, hide, hair an' hoofs!" "Which we sure are," agreed Sucatash, not to be outdone. "That's whatever!" "And here is this minin' sharp," said Dave, turning about and reaching for the shrinking Banker. "Come here, Jim, and say howdy, if you ain't herded with burros so long you've forgotten human amenities that a way. Mad'mo'selle wants to talk to you." Banker emerged from behind them. He, too, held his hat in hand, an incredibly stained and battered felt atrocity. His seamed face was nut brown under constant exposure to the sun. His garments were faded nondescripts, and on his feet were thick-soled, high-lacing boots. He gave an impression of dry dinginess, like rawhide, and his eyes were mean and shifty. He might have been fifty or he might have been older; one could not tell. Mademoiselle was uncertain. She hardly knew enough to question this queer specimen, and so she turned to Marian Pettis. "Miss Pettis, can you explain to him? I can hardly tell him what we wish to know. And, if the mine is found, half of it will be yours, you know." "Mine! Lord sakes, I ain't counting on it. You gotta fat chance to find it. This bird, here, has been searchin' for it ever since the year one and he ain't found it. Say, Banker, this is Mad'mo'selle Dalbray. She's the daughter of that French Pete that was killed----" "Hey?" said Banker, sharply. "Ah, you know the yarn. You been huntin' his mine since Lord knows when. This lady is lookin' for it and she wants some dope on how to go about findin' it."