The day before he had managed to crack off a piece of rock twice the width of his hand; and though it had broken too far inside the crosscut to accomplish much in the way of enlarging the opening, Gary was nevertheless vastly encouraged. He could now thrust out his hand to the elbow. He could feel the sun shine hot upon it at midday. He could feel the warm wind in his face when he held it pressed close against the open space. He could even smooth Faith’s sleek head when she scrambled upon the bowlder and peered in at him round-eyed and anxious. The world that day had seemed very close. But to-day, while the telegram to Patricia was loitering in Los Angeles, the sky over Johnnywater was filled thick with clouds. Daylight came gray into the deep gloom of the crosscut. And Gary could not swing a steady blow, but pounded doggedly at the rock with quick, short-arm strokes like a woodpecker hammering at the bole of a dead tree. He was obliged to stop often and rest, leaning against the wall with his hunger-sharpened profile like a cameo where the light shone in upon him. He would stand there and pant for a while and then lift the four-pound hammer--grown terribly heavy, lately--and go on pounding unavailingly at the rock. CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN “NOBODY KNOWS BUT A PINTO CAT” Patricia liked Kansas City even less than she had anticipated. She dragged herself through the heat to the office each morning, worried somehow through her work and returned to her room too utterly depressed and weary to seek what enjoyment lay close at hand. A little park was just across the street, but Patricia could not even summon sufficient interest to enter it. Every cloud that rose over the horizon was to her imagination a potential cyclone, which she rather hoped would sweep her away. She thought she would like to be swept into a new world; and if she could leave her memory behind her she thought that life might be almost bearable. No mail had been forwarded to her from Los Angeles, and the utter silence served to deepen her general pessimism. And then, an hour before closing time on the hottest day she had ever experienced in her life, here came the telegram for P. Connolly. “Gary Marshall mysteriously missing from Johnnywater----” Patricia blinked and read again incredulously. The remainder of the message, “evidence points to foul play suspect Hawkins wire instructions” sounded to her suspiciously like one of Gary’s jokes. She was obliged to read the signature, “M. Girard,” over several times, and to make sure that it was sent from Las Vegas, Nevada, before she could even begin to accept the message as authentic. How in the world could Gary be mysteriously missing from Johnnywater when he had flatly refused to go there? How could Hawkins be suspected? P. Connolly went suddenly into a white, wilted heap in her chair.