It was on the morning of the third day that the _Herald_ announced the return of Mr. Josiah Richlander from the Topaz; and in the marriage notices of the same issue the breakfast-table readers of the newspapers learned that the multimillionaire's daughter had been privately married the previous evening to Mr. Tucker Jibbey. Two mining speculators, who had already made Mr. Jibbey's acquaintance, were chuckling over the news in the Hophra House grill when a third late breakfaster, a man who had been sharing Stanton's office space as a broker in improved ranch lands, came in to join them. "What's the joke?" inquired the newcomer; and when he was shown the marriage item he nodded gravely. "That's all right; but the _Herald_ man didn't get the full flavor of it. It was a sort of runaway match, it seems; the fond parent wasn't invited or consulted. The boys in the lobby tell me that the old man had a fit when he came in this morning and a _Herald_ reporter showed him that notice and asked for more dope on the subject." "I don't see that the fond parent has any kick coming," said the one who had sold Jibbey a promising prospect hole on Topaz Mountain two days earlier. "The young fellow's got all kinds of money." "I know," the land broker put in. "But they're whispering it around that Mr. Richlander had other plans for his daughter. They also say that Jibbey wouldn't stay to face the music; that he left on the midnight train last night a few hours after the wedding, so as not to be among those present when the old man should blow in." "What?"--in a chorus of two--"left his wife?" "That's what they say. But that's only one of the new and startling things that isn't in the morning papers. Have you heard about Smith?--or haven't you been up long enough yet?" "I heard yesterday that he was beginning to mend," replied the breakfaster on the left; the one who had ordered bacon and eggs, with the bacon cooked to a cinder. "You're out of date," this from the dealer in ranches. "You know the story that was going around about his being an escaped convict, or something of that sort? It gets its 'local color' this morning. There's a sheriff here from back East somewhere--came in on the early train; name's Macauley, and he's got the requisition papers. But Smith's fooled him good and plenty." Again the chorus united in an eager query. "How?" "He died last night--a little past midnight. They say they're going to bury him out at the dam--on the job that he pulled through and stood on its feet. One of Williams's quarrymen drifted in with the story just a little while ago. I'm here to bet you even money that the whole town goes to the funeral."