“Now, in order to be perfectly legal about this matter, Carey,” began Bob, when the notary had departed, “we should show some consideration for all this money. I have here the papers showing I have filed on twenty acres of a mining claim. It's just twenty acres of the Mojave desert, near San Pasqual, and I do not know that it contains a speck of valuable mineral, but that is neither here nor there. I staked it as a mining claim and christened it the Baby Mine.” Here a slight smile flickered across the young Desert Rat's face, as if some very pleasant thought had preceded it. He continued: “I have had my signature to this deed to the Baby Mine attested before a notary a few minutes prior to my arrival in your office.” He handed the document to T. Morgan Carey. “Here's your mine, Carey. I've sold it to you for a million dollars, and unless you spend one hundred dollars a year in assessment work, the title to this million-dollar property will lapse. I wish you luck with your bargain. I shall expect you to record this deed within three days, and that will block any come-back you may start figuring on. If you fail to record this deed I shall construe your act as a breach of faith, return to you all but the five hundred thousand dollars which belongs to my wife, and then proceed to make things disagreeable for you. Remember, Carey, I'm your attorney and you should be guided by my advice.” Carey's face was livid with rage and hatred. “And in addition, I suppose I'm to forget that you're a stage robber, eh?” He reached for the telephone. “By the gods, McGraw, I'll take a chance with you after all. I'm going to fight you.” Bob McGraw drew a large envelope from his pocket. “You may read what this envelope contains while waiting for central to answer your call” he said gently. “I snipped the wires while you were hiding your face in your hands, wondering what you were going to do. These papers are merely a few affidavits, proving an absolute alibi in the matter of that Garlock robbery. I was eating frijoles and flapjacks with three prospectors about fifteen miles south of Olancho at the time this stage was held up, and I was in Keeler the following morning. This document contains a statement of the most amazing case of circumstantial evidence you ever heard of. Its author is the chief of Wells Fargo and besides, I have queer ideas on the subject of punishment for crime. Crime, Mr. Carey, is a great deal like our other human ailments, such as the chicken-pox and tonsilitis. We must bear with it and try to cure it by gentle care and scientific treatment. Prison cells have never cured a criminal, and it would only pain me to see you behind the bars in your old age. And I am certain that my wife would not rejoice at the news of your hanging.” “I suppose money has nothing to do with the celerity with which you hasten to compound a felony, eh?” sneered Carey.