Meantime, Beth, her brother, and Pratt had gratified their most crying needs on Algy’s cooking, much to that worthy Celestial’s delight.  There were two things Beth intended to perform:  report the results of her labors to Van, and attack Mr. Lawrence in his den.

Precisely what she meant to say or do to the Government representative she did not or could not determine.  Some vague idea of making him confess to an infamy practiced at Bostwick’s instance was the most she had in mind.  If half the success already achieved could be expected here, she would have a report worth while to make when Van should be presently encountered.

Impetuous, eager to hasten with her work, she insisted upon an immediate advance.  Glenmore readily supported her position.  Pratt developed shyness.  His forte was hiking over desert hills, lugging a transit, running lines or levels; he felt out of place as a fighter, or even an accuser.  Nevertheless, he went, for Beth insisted.

Already the streets were crowded full of life, as the three proceeded down the thoroughfare.  A mining-camp is a restless thing; its peoples live in the streets.  Freight teams, flowing currents of men, chains of dusty mules, disordered cargoes on the sidewalks, and a couple of automobiles were glaringly cut out from their shadows, as the sunlight poured upon them.  Sunlight and motion, false-fronted buildings, tents, and mountains, and fever—­that is the camp on the desert.

With excitement increasing upon her at every step, Beth glanced at the crowds in a rapid search for Van.  He was not to be seen.  In all the throng, where old men and youths, pale and swarthy, lazy and alert were circulating like the blood of Goldite’s arteries, there was not a face that she knew.

They came to the office where Lawrence presided just as a stranger was departing, Lawrence was alone.  He occupied the inner apartment, as Culver had done, but the door was standing open.

It was Beth who knocked and entered first as the man called out his invitation.  She had never in her life appeared more beautiful.  Color was flaming in her cheeks as on a rose.  Her eyes were exceptionally bright and brown.  The exquisite coral of her lips was delicately tremulous with all her short, quick breathing.

Lawrence arose, as she and the others appeared in the door, and removed his hat.  He was a short, florid person, with a beard of fiery red.  His eyes were of the lightest gray; and they were shifting.

“Good-morning,” he said, in undisguised astonishment, beholding Beth.  “You—­pardon me—­you——­”

“Good-morning,” Beth replied faintly.  “We called—­are you Mr. Lawrence?”

“At your service.”  Lawrence bowed.  “I rarely expect—­in my line of work—­my business.  Miss—­Miss——­”

“Miss Kent,” said Glenmore, interrupting.  “And my name is Kent.  I suppose you’re wise to Mr. Pratt.”

Lawrence continued to bow.