"Not a bit," admitted Whitford. "Actions talk, not words. Have you seen the police yet, Bromfield?" "N-not yet." "What's he gonna see the police about?" Jerry wanted to know, his chin jutting out. "To tell them that he saw Collins draw a gun and heard shots fired," retorted the mining man instantly. "Not what he's been tellin' me. He'll not pull any such story--not unless he wants to put himself in a cell for life." "Talk sense. You can't frighten Bromfield. He knows that's foolishness." "Does he?" The crook turned derisive eyes on the victim he was torturing. Certainly the society man did not look a picture of confidence. The shadow of a heavy fear hung over him. The telephone rang. Bromfield's trembling fingers picked up the transmitter. He listened a moment, then turned it over to Beatrice. "For you." Her part of the conversation was limited. It consisted of the word "Yes" repeated at intervals and a concluding, "Oh, I'm so glad. Thank you." Her eyes were sparkling when she hung up. "Good news, Dad," she said. "I'll tell you later." Durand laughed brutally as he rose. "Good news, eh? Get all you can. You'll need it. Take that from me. It's straight. Your friend's in trouble up to the neck." He swaggered to the door and turned. "Don't forget, Bromfield. Keep outa this or you'll be sorry." His voice was like the crack of a trainer's whip to animals in a circus. For once Bromfield did not jump through the hoop. "Oh, go to the devil," he said in irritation, flushing angrily. "Better not get gay with me," advised Durand sourly. After the door had closed on him there was a momentary pause. The younger man spoke awkwardly. "You can tell me now what it was Mr. Lindsay told you." "We'd like to know for sure whether you're with us or with Durand," said Whitford mildly. "Of course we know the answer to that. You're with us. But we want to hear you say it, flat-foot." "Of course I'm with you. That is, I'd like to be. But I don't want to get into trouble, Mr. Whitford. Can you blame me for that?" "You wouldn't get into trouble," argued the mine owner impatiently. "I keep telling you that." Beatrice, watching the younger man closely, saw as in a flash the solution of this mystery--the explanation of the tangle to which various scattered threads had been leading her. "Are you sure of that, Dad?" "How could he be hurt, Bee?" The girl let Bromfield have it straight from the shoulder. "Because Clay didn't kill that man Collins. Clarendon did it." "My God, you know!" he cried, ashen-faced. "He told you." "No, he didn't tell us. For some reason he's protecting you. But I know it just the same. You did it." "It was in self-defense," he pleaded. "Then why didn't you say so? Why did you let Clay be accused instead of coming forward at once?" "I was waiting to see if he couldn't show he was innocent without--"