“I am an old man—old beyond my time. Seeing you is one of the two ambitions I have left me. Let the fact that I have loved your mother, living and dead, these forty years, explain my interest in you. It is of her that I want to talk to you. “Will you come to Winnemucca on the sixth? I’ll look for you in the parlor of the Eldorado Hotel at noon. “For reasons that you will understand then, I hope you will come alone and that you will not go to the shipping pens until you have seen me. “My name would mean nothing to you, so I will sign myself just “Your Friend.” A sigh escaped Johnny as he handed back the letter. “Well, what do you make of it?” Molly asked earnestly. The boy could only shake his head. Here was the final proof of the dead man’s interest in the girl Johnny loved. What lay in back of it was still a closed book, but certainly Traynor had felt himself close to her. His death may have been without connection with his proposed intention to see Molly, but Johnny just could not believe it. There was old Kent’s attitude toward Johnny; the whole sorry business at Standing Rock; the bickering; the stupidity of men who were solid citizens. Was it all a play, a staged show to block justice? The boy tried to close his eyes to the pictures his sorely puzzled brain conjectured, but in spite of every resolve an inner voice kept on dinning in his ears: “Jackson Kent killed this man! Hired it done! Paid for it!” But why? Molly’s mother? What other reason could a rich man have for ordering a crime of this sort? It was not to be supposed that Johnny’s excitement would escape Molly’s eyes. In comparison she was less nervous than he. “Are you reading something between the lines?” she demanded. “Your face is white.” “Miss Molly, how long have you been waiting?” “On and off since eleven. But tell me, shouldn’t I have come? Don’t be mysterious that way, Johnny. You actually frighten me.” “No harm in coming,” he told her. He was only marking time. Johnny knew that he would have to tell some part of what had happened to the man who had written her this letter. “Can you make a guess as to who wrote that note?” he went on, still playing against the minutes. “Why, no. I haven’t the slightest memory of my mother. And I do believe the man was what he claimed to be.” “He was,” Johnny answered succinctly. “What you intendin’ doin’ now?” “I thought I’d wait here the rest of the afternoon.” Now he had to tell her. “No use doin’ that, little girl. No use at all.” Johnny’s manner brought the girl to her feet. “What _are_ you saying?” she asked falteringly. “He won’t come.” The words left the boy’s lips slowly. “The man you’re waiting for is dead!” CHAPTER XIII “HE IS MY FRIEND!”