Without the least hesitation the plainsman thrust forward the letter. “Maybe this’ll help you,” he suggested. “This here is a copy. I’ve got the aboriginal cached where it’ll be safe. But this is all to the accurate except that it’s got two or three names of places left out. I ain’t givin’ the whole thing away, you understand.” Caruth took the letter with a hand that trembled in spite of himself. He did not want to read it; to do so seemed a sort of dishonor--a lack of consideration for the desires of Miss Fitzhugh. On the other hand, it would be madness to let slip what might very well be his only chance to acquaint himself with a letter she had bought and paid for and with facts that might spell life and death to him and to her. His uncertainty must have showed in his face, for the other encouraged him. “Go ’long!” he said. “Read it. It won’t bite none.” Caruth opened the letter. It read as follows: DEAR JIM: There’s been a fight and everybody on board is dead or dying. The _Orkney_ is sinking, and we’re all due to drown if we live long enough. It was the gold. A million pounds and more. Petroff told us about it, and we jumped the officers. They fought hard, but we worried ’em down. Then the second mate fired the magazine. Petroff and I are fixing a bottle. We are in the * * * between * * * Get the gold if you can. No more from Your Brother BILL. Caruth’s hands dropped, and he looked up. His cheeks were white. So this was the explanation? The girl’s quest was for gold. The letter she sought contained, not the names of revolutionists, as he had inferred, but information as to the whereabouts of gold that seemed already to have cost many men their lives. It all seemed very sordid to Caruth. He had never earned or lacked a penny in his life, and to struggle for mere money seemed to him little short of disgraceful. It speaks volumes for the impression Marie Fitzhugh had made upon him that it never even occurred to him to misdoubt her interest in the matter, or to question whether she might not be a mere adventuress, the tool of private thieves rather than the agent of public conspirators. Perhaps, after all, this was because he was tenacious of his beliefs, and, once having formed them, did not readily change. One thing, however, stood out in his consciousness: He must discover her whereabouts and tell her that her letter had been found. He had no qualms in regard to Wilkins. The man had forced his confidence upon him, and he was under no obligation to preserve it. Miss Fitzhugh owned the letter. She had bought it from its owner and had paid for it, and was entitled to know its contents. His part was to find out if she still wanted it, and to make sure that the man who held it would be available if she did.