"I suppose it won't make any difference to you that your gold-dust has taken on a different form." "Why, no," Bruce answered. "It's all the same." Yet he felt a little surprise. "But the letter from 'Slim's' sister, and the picture--I want them, too." "I'm sorry," Sprudell frowned in perplexity, "but they've been mislaid. I can't think where I put them, to save my soul." "How could you misplace them?" Bruce demanded sharply. "You kept them all together, didn't you? I _wanted_ that picture." "It'll turn up, of course," Sprudell replied soothingly. "And when it does I'll get it to you by the first mail." Bruce did not answer--there seemed nothing more to say--but there was something in Sprudell's voice and eyes that was not convincing. Bruce had the feeling strongly that he was holding back the letter and the picture, but why? What could they possibly mean to a stranger? He was wrong in his suspicions, of course, but nevertheless, he was intensely irritated by the carelessness. He arose, and Sprudell did likewise. "You are going West from here?" Bruce answered shortly: "On the first train." Sprudell lowered his lids that Bruce should not see the satisfaction in his eyes. "Good luck to you, and once more, congratulations on your safe return." Bruce reluctantly took the hand he offered, wondering why it was that Sprudell repelled him so. "Good-bye," he answered indifferently, as he turned to go. Abe Cone in his comparatively short career had done many impulsive and ill-considered things but he never committed a worse _faux pas_ than when he dashed unannounced into Sprudell's office, at this moment, dragging an out-of-town customer by the arm. "Excuse me for intrudin'," he apologized breathlessly, "but my friend here, Mr. Herman Florsheim--shake hands with Mr. Sprudell, Herman--wants to catch a train and he's interested in what I been tellin' him of that placer ground you stumbled on this fall. He's got friends in that country and wanted to know just where it is. I remember you said something about Ore City bein' the nearest post-office, but what railroad is it on? If we need any outside money, why, Herman here--" Bruce's hand was on the door-knob, but he lingered, ignoring the most urgent invitation to go that he ever had seen in any face. "I'm busy, Abe," Sprudell said so sharply that his old friend stared. "You _are_ intruding. You should have sent your name." Bruce closed the door which he had partially opened and came back. "Don't mind me," he said slowly, looking at Sprudell. "I'd like to hear about that placer--the one you stumbled on last fall." "We'll come another time," Abe said, crestfallen. Bruce turned to him: "No, don't go. I've just come from Ore City and I may be able to tell your friend something that he wants to know. Where _is_ your placer ground, Sprudell?" Sprudell sat down in his office chair, toying with a desk-fixture, while Bruce shoved both hands in his trousers' pockets and waited for him to speak.