Finally, one morning, Charley laid a Brown paper on Enoch’s desk.  The Secretary of the Interior, said the account, had denied the truth of certain statements made by the publication.  A repetition of the story followed.  A careful reinvestigation of the facts, the account went on, showed the case to be as originally stated.  The well-known lawyer had been interviewed.  He had told the reporter that the contents of Field’s letter were surprising beyond words and that as soon as he had made full preparations some arrests would follow that would startle the country.  The lawyer, whose name was withheld for obvious reasons, was a man whose integrity was beyond question.  He had no intention of using the funds willed him by Field, for he and Field had grown up together in a little New England town.  The money would be put in trust for Field’s son, who would be sent to college with the lawyer’s own boy.  In the meantime, the Secretary of the Interior would not be beyond a most respectful and discriminating investigation himself.  It was known that he had cut short an unsuccessful speaking tour for very good reasons, and had disappeared into the desert country for a month.  Where had he been?

Enoch suddenly laughed as he laid the paper down.  “It is so childish, so preposterous, that even a fool wouldn’t swallow it!” he exclaimed.

“It’s just the sort of thing that people swallow whole,” returned Abbott.

“Even at that, it’s absolutely unimportant,” said Enoch.  Again Charley disagreed with him.  “Mr. Secretary, it’s very important, for it’s a threat.  It says that if you don’t keep still, they will investigate your desert trip.  And you know what they could make of that!”

“Let them keep their tongues off my Department, then,” said Enoch, sternly.  Nevertheless when Abbott had left him alone he did not turn immediately to his work.  His cigar grew cold, and the ink dried on his pen, while he sat with the look of grim determination in his eyes and lips, deepening.

He dined out that night and was tired and depressed when he returned home.  Jonas was smiling when he let the Secretary in and took his coat.

“Boss, they’s a nice little surprise waiting for you up on your desk.”

“Who’d be surprising me, Jonas?  No one on earth but you, I’m afraid.”

Jonas chuckled.  “You’re a bad guesser, boss!  A bad guesser!  How come you to think I could do anything to surprise you?”

Enoch went into his brightly lighted room and stopped before his desk with a low exclamation of pleasure.  A large photograph stood against the book rack.  Three little naked Indian children with feathers in their hair were dancing in the foreground.  Behind them lay an ancient cliff dwelling half in ruins.  To the left an Indian warrior, arms folded on his broad chest stood watching the children, his face full of an inscrutable sadness.  The children were extraordinarily beautiful.  Diana had worked with a very rapid lens and had caught them atilt, in the full abandonment of the child to joy in motion.  The shadowed, mysterious, pathetic outline of the cliff dwelling, the somber figure of the chief only enhanced the vivid sense of motion and glee in the children.  The picture was intrinsically lovely even without that haunting sense of the desert’s significance that made Diana’s work doubly intriguing.