Connie clapped her hands softly. "That was fine! Tell us some more." "The next one was better, and it worked like a charm. Lansdale writes things for the papers, only the editors here wouldn't buy any of his work"-- "Why not?" interrupted Miss Van Vetter. "I don't know; because it was too good, I guess. Anyway, they wouldn't buy it, so Jeffard went to work on that lead. I took him around and introduced him to Kershaw of the 'Coloradoan,' and he made Kershaw take fifty dollars on deposit, and got him to promise to accept some of Lansdale's stories. Kershaw kicked like the deu--like the mischief, and didn't want to do it; but we bullied him, and then I got Lansdale to send him some stuff." "Mr. Jeffard is an artist in schemes, and I envy him," said Connie. "What happened to that one?" "Kershaw upset it by not printing the stuff. Of course, Lansdale watched the 'Coloradoan,' and when he found he wasn't in it, he wouldn't send any more. We caught him the next time, though, for something worth while." "How was that?" It was Miss Van Vetter who asked the question; and Bartrow made a strenuous effort to evade the frontier idiom which stood ready to trip him at every turn when Myra Van Vetter's poiseful gaze rested upon him. "Why, I happen to have a played-out--er--that is, a sort of no-account mine up in Clear Creek, and I made Lansdale believe I was the resident agent for the property, authorized to get up a descriptive prospectus. He took the job of writing it, and never once tumbled to the racket--that is, he never suspected that we were working him for a--oh, good Lord, why can't I talk plain English!--you know what I mean; he thought it was all straight. Well, he turned in the copy, and we paid him as much as he'd stand; but he has just about worried the life out of me ever since, trying to get to read proof on that prospectus. That one was Jeffard's idea, too, but I made him let me in on the assessment." Before Miss Van Vetter could inquire what the "assessment" was, Stephen Elliott came in and the talk became general. An hour later, when Bartrow took his leave, Constance went to the door with him. "Don't you really know where Mr. Jeffard is, Dick?" she asked. Something in her tone set him upon the right track. "No; do you?" "I know that he left Denver quite a while ago; about the time you were down last." "How do you know it?" "He told me he was going." "The mischief he did! Where did you get acquainted with him?" "At Mrs. Calmaine's." Honest Dick ground his heel into the door-mat and thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his overcoat. What was in his mind came out shorn of euphemism. "Say, Connie, do you care anything about him?" "What a question!" she retorted, not pretending to misunderstand its pointing. "I've met him only once--or twice, I should say, though I didn't even know his name the first time." "What did he tell you? about his going away, I mean."