Ford was still puzzling over the meaningless code words when he took his seat in the second of the two buckboards with Frisbie.  The first assistant waited until the horses had splashed through the shallows of the river crossing; waited further until the president’s vehicle had gained a little start.  Then he said:  “Is it possible that you had Penfield for a spy on you as long as you did without working out his cipher code?  Good Lord!  I got that down before I did anything else—­last spring when you left me to run the Plug Mountain.  Here’s what he says to North”—­taking the code message and translating:  “Ford suspects something.  Don’t know how much.  He and Miss Adair are putting their heads together.  She has authority of some kind from her brother.  President goes with Ford to examine abandoned route, as arranged.  Will wire result later.’”

“‘As arranged,’” was Ford’s wrathful comment.

“Apparently, everything is arranged for us.  Some day, Dick, I’ll lose my temper, tie Penfield in a hard knot and throw him into the river!  It’s like a chapter out of Lucretia Borgia!”

XIX

THE RELUCTANT WHEELS

It was possibly an hour after Penfield’s cipher message reached the Southwestern Pacific headquarters in the Colorado capital, when a fair-haired young man in London-cut clothes, and with a tourist’s quota of hand-luggage, crossed the Denver Union Station platform from the Pullman of a belated Chicago train.

Ascertaining from a gateman that the Plug Mountain day train had long since gone on its way up the canyon, the young man left his many belongings at the check-stand and had himself driven up-town to the Guaranty Building.  It was Eckstein who took his card in Mr. North’s outer office.  The private secretary was dictating to a stenographer, and was impatient of the interruption.  But the name on the card wrought a miracle.

“Mr. North?  Why, surely, Mr. Adair.  He is always at liberty for you.  Right through this way”—­holding the gate in the counter railing at its widest—­“we’re mighty glad to see you in Denver, always.”

Adair had acquired the monocle habit on his latest run across the Atlantic, and to keep in practice he gave the secretary the coldest of stares through the disconcerting glass.  “Really!  I’m quite delighted.  Who is the other member of the ‘we,’ Mr.—­er—­er—­”

“Eckstein,” prompted the secretary; but he said no more, being prudently anxious to be quit of the transfixing stare before a worse thing should befall.

In the inner room the vice-president was less effusive, but no less cordial.  It was a rare thing to see one of the company’s directors in the Denver business offices.  Mr. North was of the opinion that it would be a good investment of time and effort for all concerned if the members of the board used their privilege oftener.  So on through half a dozen polite time-killers to the reluctant query:  What could the general manager do for Mr. Adair?