When she opened her eyes the assistant bookkeeper was standing over her with a glass of water, and her boss was hurrying in from his office. Some one had evidently called him. Her boss was not the kind of man who wastes time on nonessentials. He did not ask Patricia if she were ill or what was the matter. He picked up the open telegram and read it with one long, comprehensive glance. Then he placed his hand under Patricia’s arm, told her that she was all right, that the heat did those things in Kansas City, and added the information that there was a breeze blowing in the corner window of his office. Patricia suffered him to lead her away from the gaping office force. “Sit right there until you feel better,” her boss commanded, pushing her rather gently into a chair in the coolest corner of the room. “I feel better now,” Patricia told him gamely. “I received a telegram that knocked me over for a minute. I didn’t know what it meant. If you don’t mind, Mr. Wilson, I should like to go and attend to the matter.” Mr. Wilson handed her the telegram with a dry smile. “It sounds rather ominous, I admit,” he observed, omitting an apology for having read it. “Naturally I cannot advise you, since I do not understand what it is all about. But if you wish to wire any instructions, just write your message here while I call the messenger. There was a delay, remember. The message was forwarded from Los Angeles.” “Thank you, Mr. Wilson,” Patricia answered in her prim office tone. “I should like to reply at once, if you don’t mind. And, Mr. Wilson, if you will be so good as to O. K. a check for me, I shall take the next train to Las Vegas, Nevada.” “I’ll ’phone for a ticket and reservations,” her boss announced without hesitation. “You will want to be sure of having enough money to see you through, of course. I can arrange an advance on your salary, if you wish.” Patricia told him, in not quite so prim a tone, that it would not be necessary. She wrote her message asking Monty Girard to wait until she arrived, as she was taking the next train. The messenger, warned by a certain look in the eye of the boss, ducked his head and departed almost running. Patricia wrote her check and the boss sent it to the cashier by the office boy; and telephoned the ticket office. Patricia read the telegram again very slowly. “Johnnywater is the name of a cattle ranch which I happen to own in Nevada, Mr. Wilson,” Patricia said in the steadiest voice she could command. “Hawkins is a man I sent over to take charge of the ranch and run it on shares. You’ll see why I must go and look into this matter.” You will observe that Patricia, having come up gasping for breath, was still saying, “Scissors!” with secret relish.