How we got there you must ask this good animal, who took all the responsibility and did all the work. I merely clung and balanced, and at times, when he rounded the end of a zigzag, for instance, I even shut my eyes, though the prospect was magnificent. At last even his patience seemed to give out, and he stopped and trembled. But before I could open my eyes on the abyss beneath he made another effort. I felt the brush of tree branches across my face, and, looking up, saw before me the ledge or platform dotted with tents, at which I had looked with such longing from the opposite hillsides. Simultaneously I heard voices, and saw approaching a bronzed and bearded man with strongly-marked Scotch features and a determined air. “The doctor!” I involuntarily exclaimed, with a glance at the small and curious tent before which he stood guard. “Yes, the doctor,” he answered in unexpectedly good English. “And who are you? Have you brought the mail and those medicines I sent for?” “No,” I replied with as propitiatory a smile as I could muster up in face of his brusk forbidding expression. “I came on my own errand. I am a representative of the New York—and I hope you will not deny me a word with Mr. Fairbrother.” With a gesture I hardly knew how to interpret he took my horse by the rein and led us on a few steps toward another large tent, where he motioned me to descend. Then he laid his hand on my shoulder and, forcing me to meet his eye, said: “You have made this journey—I believe you said from New York—to see Mr. Fairbrother. Why?” “Because Mr. Fairbrother is at present the most sought-for man in America,” I returned boldly. “His wife—you know about his wife—” “No. How should I know about his wife? I know what his temperature is and what his respiration is—but his wife? What about his wife? He don’t know anything about her now himself; he is not allowed to read letters.” “But you read the papers. You must have known, before you left Santa Fe, of Mrs. Fairbrother’s foul and most mysterious murder in New York. It has been the theme of two continents for the last ten days.” He shrugged his shoulders, which might mean anything, and confined his reply to a repetition of my own words. “Mrs. Fairbrother murdered!” he exclaimed, but in a suppressed voice, to which point was given by the cautious look he cast behind him at the tent which had drawn my attention. “He must not know it, man. I could not answer for his life if he received the least shock in his present critical condition. Murdered? When?” “Ten days ago, at a ball in New York. It was after Mr. Fairbrother left the city. He was expected to return, after hearing the news, but he seems to have kept straight on to his destination. He was not very fond of his wife,—that is, they have not been living together for the last year. But he could not help feeling the shock of her death which he must have heard of somewhere along the route.”