“Don’t mention her again,” says the operator, turning deathly white, and thinking of Dorothy, who must hear every word; but although the sudden warning causes Phœnix to be more guarded in his speech, what he has already said has aroused a curiosity in the mind of Dorothy that will grow rapidly, until it brings her in at the grand climax. “In palmy days of yore, before I took to tramping in order to see the undercurrent of life, I used to be a shorthand reporter, and my old tricks of the trade cling to me still. Under that miserable old camel blanket, with a gleam of electric light coming in at a hole, I did some of the tallest scribbling of my experience, jotting down whatever seemed of importance. Lo, the result, messieurs, of that enterprise!” He takes from his pocket a notebook, and shows page after page of scribbling, the strange hieroglyphics of the stenographer. The lines awry and the characters often faulty, but, considering the peculiar circumstances under which it was written, the work is rather creditable to the scribe. “A little out of practice, I fear, gentlemen, but on the whole I reckon you can have it easily written out into everyday English. Between these covers lies a story as thrilling, as weird as any I ever read in _Puck_. It will a tale unfold to harrow up your soul and make your blood run cold. “This, then, I leave as a legacy. Hire some poor hungry devil of a shorthand writer to spin the yarn. My word for it, you will be amply repaid. I would dearly love to undertake the task myself, without hope of reward, but two things prevent. I always hated rendering into prosy English the poetic signs of shorthand. Then again my time is limited in this romantic city by the lakeside. I am uneasy--like the Wandering Jew I find no rest, but must cross the border to Canada’s domain. An important engagement necessitates my leaving on the next train. Hence, you will excuse me if I retire. Aleck, my dear boy, always remember you with pleasure. Look you up in Montreal if I settle there. Reckon I’ll make a good Canuck in the end. Mr. Cereal, yours to command. Young lady, proud to have served one so lovely. As to you, sir,” addressing the party who still persists in keeping his back turned, “if you will step outside with me, where we run no chance of disturbing the elements of this charming gathering, the question of your right to break upon my narrative with insulting grunts that are significant of contempt will speedily be settled,” and with this explosive shot the man from Denver takes a step toward the door. “We can settle the whole business right here and now, Phœnix, my boy,” says John suddenly.