Bostwick was white.

“Look here, Beth, is this some maudlin sentiment over that brigand, Van Buren?  Is that what you mean?”

She rose once more and confronted him angrily.  It was not a mere girl, but a strong and resolute woman he was facing.

“Mr. Bostwick,” she said, “you haven’t yet acquired the right to demand such a thing as that of me.  For reasons of my own, maudlin or otherwise, I refuse to have my funds employed in the manner you say you mean to use them.  I insist upon the immediate return to me of thirty thousand dollars.”

If rage at Van Buren consumed his blood, Bostwick’s fear was a greater emotion.  Before him he could plainly discern the abject failure of his plans—­the plan to marry this beautiful girl, the plan to go on with McCoppet and snatch a fortune from the earth.  It was not a time for defiance.  He must fence.  He must yield as far as possible—­till the claim should make him independent.  Of the tirade on his tongue against Van Buren he dared not utter a word.  His own affairs of love would serve no better.

He summoned a smile to his ghastly lips and attempted to assume a calm demeanor.

“Very well,” he said.  “If that is the way you feel about your money, I will pay you back at once.”

“If you please,” she said.  “To-day.”

“But—­the bank isn’t open after three,” he said in a species of panic.  “You can’t be utterly unreasonable.”

“It was open much later when we were wiring New York some time ago,” she reminded him coldly.  “I think you’ll find it open to-night till nine.”

“Well—­perhaps I can arrange it, then,” he said in desperation.  “I’ll get down there now and see what I can do.”

He took his hat and, glad to escape a further inquisition, made remarkable haste from the house.

Trembling with excitement, quivering on the verge of half-discovered things, flashes of intuition, fragments of deduction, Beth waited an hour for developments.

Searle did not return.  She had felt he would not.  She was certain her money was gone.

At dusk a messenger boy arrived with the briefest note, in Bostwick’s familiar hand.

“Sudden, urgent call to the claim.  No time for business.  Back as soon as possible.  With love and faith, yours, SEARLE.”

How she loathed his miserable lie!

CHAPTER XXXIX

ALGY’S COOKING AND BETH’S DESPAIR

Van and the new supply of provender arrived together at the tent where the partners made their temporary home.  It was nearly dusk, the mellow end of a balmy day.  Gettysburg, Napoleon, and Dave were all inside the canvas, filling the small hollow cube of air with a mighty reek from their pipes, and playing seven-up on a greasy box.  The Chinese cook was away, much to Van’s surprise.

“Gett,” he said, throwing off his belt and revolver, “if Nap was to deal the cards on your tombstone, on the day of Gabriel’s trump, I’ll bet you’d break the crust and take a hand.  What have you done with Algy?”