Beth tried to think her blushes were those of indignation, which likewise caused the beat of her heart to rise. But her hand fluttered prettily up to her breast, where the nugget was pinned inside her waist. Also his letter must have been hard to understand--she read it seventeen times. Then she presently turned to the other. It was addressed in typewritten characters, but the writing inside she knew--her brother Glen's. "Dear Old Sis: Say, what in the dickens are you doing out here in the mines, by all that's holey?--and what's all this story in the Goldite _News_ about one Bronson Van Buren doing the benevolent brigand stunt with you and your maid, and shunting Searle off with the Cons? Why couldn't you let a grubber know you were hiking out here to the desert? Why all this elaborate surprise--this newspaper wireless to your fond and lonesome? "What's the matter with your writing hand? Is this Van-brigand holding them both? What's the matter with Searle? I wrote him two or three aeons ago, when he might have been of assistance. Now I'm doing my eight hours a day in an effort to sink down to China. I'm on the blink, in a way, but not for long, for this is the land where opportunity walks night and day to thump on your door--and I'll grab her by the draperies yet. "But _me_!--working as a common miner!--though I've got a few days off to go and look at a claim with a friend of mine, so you needn't answer till you hear again. "If Searle is dead, why don't he say so? I only touched him for a few odd dollars--I only needed a grub-stake--fifty would have done the trick--and he doesn't come through. And nobody writes. I guess it's me for the Prodigal, but when I do get next to the fatted calf I'll get inside and eat my way out by way of his hoofs and horns. Why couldn't you and Searle and the maid come down and have a look at me--working? _It's worth it_. Come on. Maybe it's easier than writing. Yours for the rights of labor, GLEN." Astonished by the contents of this communication, Beth read it again, in no little bewilderment, to make sure she had made no mistake. No letter from herself? No word from Searle? No answer to Glen's request for money? And he had only asked for a "few odd dollars?" There must be something wrong. He had sent the most urgent requirement for sixty thousand dollars. And she herself had written, at once. Searle had assured her he had sent him word by special messenger. Starlight was less than a long day's ride away. Glen had already had time to see that account in the paper and write.