A bomb, thrown through the window, would not have caused greater confusion. The false specifications were hurriedly examined by all the men. Nash’s writing and figures on the margins were instantly identified. Sigsbee, stunned by the unexpected twist in his carefully laid plot, sat as one stricken dumb. “What have you to say, Mr. Hooker?” asked the president, after the excitement had subsided. Hooker seemed to realize his hopeless position. His actions had proven his guilt. “Camp Forty-seven was rotten with graft,” he said reluctantly, dully. “Sigsbee and I had to throw the blame on some one’s shoulders--so we picked Nash. That’s all.” The president of the board walked over to Nash. “I guess there’s a great big apology coming to you, Mr. Nash.” He gripped the engineer’s hand. “I feel we can depend upon you, and I hope you will continue to represent us in Camp Forty-seven.” “I shall do my best,” Nash answered. “My motto has been, and always will be, ‘All for Los Angeles.’” “That must be our motto as well,” responded the president. “And with this in view, we must be careful not to allow the faintest whisper of this meeting to reach the ears of the public. Los Angeles has always been free from graft and political deals. It must be kept so. The public must have the utmost confidence in the men who are constructing its wonderful aqueduct. I believe all the members present understand the delicate situation. And as for these two gentlemen”--he looked across to Sigsbee and Hooker--“we must see that they are sent away. We will withdraw all charges against them. To air this matter in court would be a detriment to our clean record of the past. And while these men deserve punishment, severe punishment, we must consider, above all else, the welfare of our city. Therefore, I move that these men be placed in the custody of a detective and taken East.” The suggestion of the president was unanimously upheld by the board of engineers. Following the verdict, Nash slipped away and found Miss Trask. “If it hadn’t been for you,” he murmured, pressing her hand, “I might----” “If it hadn’t been for you,” she interrupted, “that night at the coyote I might have----” The remembrance of that night, and the one particular incident, rushed to Nash’s mind. “And why--why did you lie to me about the time?” he asked. “Why did you wish to remain with me when you knew that the explosion was to----” She looked away, and the color trembled in her cheeks. “C-can’t you guess?” she faltered. Nash had arrived at a solution a long time previous to this moment, but it seemed too good to be true. Now he knew it was true. “Let’s go over to the Alexandria for lunch,” he suggested. “I can talk better there.” And, once in that big, cosmopolitan hotel, and in a secluded corner of the grillroom, Elliot Nash amazed the stolid-faced waiter by his order. And what he said later to the girl who shared the feast was meant only for her ears. THE END. AN IMPORTANT EXCEPTION.