"Who are you fellows?" demanded Philippi, looking from one to the other. "I am a prospector from the Purgatoire," answered Pardaloe. Philippi turned his keen eye on Lefever. "You a railroad man?" "No, sir," declared Lefever, dusting the alkali vigorously from his coat sleeve. "What are you?" John looked as modest as it was possible for him to look. "Few people ask me that, but in matter of fact I am an _objet d'art_." "What's that?" "Different things at different times to different men, Philippi," answered Lefever simply, exploring, while he spoke, different corners of the room with his flash-light. "At this moment--" he stopped suddenly, then resumed reassuringly--"I want a drink." "Nothing doing," muttered the landlord sulkily. Lefever's flash-light focussed on a United States license hanging back of the bar. "Is that a mere frame-up, Philippi?" he demanded, walking significantly toward the vender's authority. "Nothing in the house to-night." "Then," announced Lefever calmly, "I arrest you." Philippi started. "Arrest me?" "For obtaining a thirst under false pretenses. Come, now, before we slip the irons on, get us something to eat. I'll go up-stairs and pick out a room to sleep in." "I tell you," insisted Philippi profanely, "there are no rooms for you to sleep in up-stairs." "And I," retorted Lefever, "tell you there are. Anyway, I left a sewing-machine up-stairs here three years ago, and promised to keep it oiled for the lady. This is a good time to begin." With Lefever making the old steps creak, ahead, and Pardaloe, with his long, soft, pigeon-toed tread close behind, the unwilling landlord was taken up the stairs, and the two men thoroughly searched the house. Lefever lowered his voice when the hunt began through the bedrooms--few of which contained even a bed--but he kept up a running fire of talk that gave Philippi no respite from anxiety. Outside the kitchen quarters, which likewise were rigorously searched, not a soul could be found in the house. One room only, over the kitchen, gave hope of uncovering something. The party reached the door of this room through a narrow, tortuous passageway along an attic gable. The door was locked. Philippi told them it belonged to a sheep-herder who did not use it often. He protested he had no key. Pardaloe knocked and, getting no response, tried unsuccessfully to force the lock. Lefever motioned him aside and, after knocking loudly on the door himself, laid his shoulder against it. The door creaked and sprung in crazy protest. The panels cracked, the stubborn frame gave, and with a violent crash Lefever pushed completely through the locked barrier and threw his flash-light inside. Pardaloe, urging the unwilling Philippi ahead, followed.