"Yes. It's in Denver." "Then I'll tell you something that is good for broken legs. The boss was talking of you only yesterday. He said you were to collect five thousand dollars when that placer mine was in shape. He forgets nothing, does he?" "Nothing." Power's stricken state was sufficient excuse for any seeming lack of gratitude, and his rescuer's mind reverted to the more immediate topic of the marriage. "I asked if you were acquainted with Miss Willard," he went on. "Naturally, you must have seen her often. She was born and bred on this ranch, I believe." "Bred here, yes; but born near Pueblo, I've been told." "Say, isn't she a peach?" "A pretty girl, very." "Rather quiet, though. Kind of subdued, to my taste. Life on the Dolores ranch must have been a mighty tough proposition, I imagine. But she'll brighten up as Mrs. Marten. They all do." "Is Marten a sultan, then?" The private secretary chortled over the joke. "I'm jiggered if I could have pulled off a wheeze like that if I had been chucked off a cliff and my leg was out of gear!" he cried. "No, my boy, Marten has a clean record in that respect. I've never known him look twice at any woman; though he's had chances in plenty. What I mean is that these sweet young things who have never seen a real store, and don't know sable from dyed rabbit, wake up amazingly when they're Mrs. Somebody of Somewhere. Look at Mrs. Van Pieter! A year ago she was keeping tab on people who hired her father's canoes at Portland, Maine, and it's hardly a week since I met her in Tiffany's, matching pearls at a thousand dollars a pick." "What were you doing in Tiffany's?" The question seemed to take Benson by surprise; but, though he might be talkative as a parrot, he did not discuss his employer's personal behests. "Having a look around," he said. "I thought you might be buying Mrs. Marten's wedding gift," went on Power. "Well, as a guesser, you'd come out first in a prize competition." "It was--just--curiosity. I wondered--what--Marten gave her." "That's no secret. She wore it today. A collarette of diamonds." "Ah, a collar! Has it a golden padlock? Is there a leash?" "Say, now! Aren't you feeling pretty bad? We're going downhill, and it jolts. But we're near that store. What's the name?" "MacGonigal's." "To be sure. I had forgotten. Queer fellow, the proprietor. Looks like a character out of one of Bret Harte's novels. Is there a doctor in Bison?" "Yes--of a sort. He's sober, some days." "Let's hope this is one of the days." "Drunk or sober, he can pull a leg straight and tie it in splints." "But it ought to be fixed in plaster of Paris. That's the latest dodge. Then you'll be able to hobble about in less than a month. Why, here's the storekeeper himself. He must have been looking this way." "He was expecting me. I promised to meet him about four o'clock." "Well, you're on time." "Thanks to you."