"I expect to make the attempt," she replied, calmly. "It is in the hands of God, my success. Somehow, I feel that I shall succeed, at least in some measure, but the same premonition points to you as one who shall make that success possible. I do not know why that is." "Premonition!" said De Launay, doubtfully. "Still--from Morgan _la fée_, even a premonition----" The shrouding mask was turned upon him with an effect of question as he paused. "Is entitled to respectful consideration," he ended. He sat thoughtfully a minute, his throbbing head making mental action difficult. "I see no hope of tracing the man--but one. Have you that bullet, mademoiselle?" She took it out of the hand bag, shivering a little as she handed it to him. "It is common--a thirty caliber, such as most hunters use. Yet it is all the clew you possess. As for the mine, there seems to be only one hope, which is, to retrace as closely as possible, the route taken by your father before he was shot. May I keep this?" She nodded her assent, and he put it in his pocket. Solange was relieved to be rid of it. "And now," he added, "I must get out of here." CHAPTER X THE GET-AWAY "If you need money--to pay the fine," began Solange, doubtfully. He shook his head. "I have a fancy to do this in my own way; the old-time way," he said. "As for money, you will have need of all you possess. The cowboy, Sucatash, is a type I know. You may take a message to him for me, and I think he will not refuse to help." He gave her rapidly whispered instructions, her quick mind taking them in at once. "And you," he finished, "when you are ready to start, will gather your outfit at Wallace's ranch near Willow Spring. From there is only one way that you can go to follow your father's trail. He must have come out of the Esmeraldas through Shoestring Canyon, therefore you must go into them that way. I will be there when you come." Solange turned to the door and he bowed to her. She shook the grating and called for the turnkey. As she heard him coming she swung round and, with a smile, held out her hand to the soldier. His sallow face flushed as he took it. Her hand clung to his a moment and then the door swung open and she was gone. De Launay took the bullet from his pocket and held it in his hand. He sat on his bunk and weighed the thing reflectively, balancing it on his palm. It was just such a bullet as might have been shot from any one of a hundred rifles, a bullet of which nothing of the original shape remained except about a quarter of an inch of the butt. He wondered if, after nineteen years, there remained any one who had even been present when French Pete was found dying.