“Hin the Red Room, sir.”  The answer was in the even, colorless voice of a servant.

The girl rose at once.  “If you’ll excuse me,” she said, and stepped out of the room.

“Hello, Bee.  What do you think?  I never saw such idiots as the police of this town are.  They’re watching this house for a desperado who assaulted some one outside.  I met a sergeant on our steps.  Says he doesn’t think the man’s here, but there’s just a chance he slipped into the basement.  It’s absurd.”

“Of course it is.”  There was a ripple of mirth in the girl’s voice.  “He didn’t come in by the basement at all, but walked in at the front door.”

“Who are you talking about?”

“The desperado, Dad.”

“The front door!” exploded her father.  “What do you mean?  Who let him in?”

“I did.  He came as my guest, at my invitation.”

“What?”

“Don’t shout, Dad,” she advised.  “I thought I had brought you up better.”

“But—­but—­but—­what do you mean?” he sputtered.  “Is this ruffian in the house now?”

“Oh, yes.  He’s in the Red Room here—­and unless he’s very deaf he hears everything we are saying,” the girl answered calmly, much amused at the amazement of her father.  “Won’t you come in and see him?  He doesn’t seem very desperate.”

Clay rose, pinpoints of laughter dancing in his eyes.  He liked the gay audacity of this young woman, just as he liked the unconventional pluck with which she had intruded herself into his affairs as a rescuer and the businesslike efficiency that had got him out of his wet rags into comfortable clothes.

A moment later he was offering a brown hand to Colin Whitford, who took it reluctantly, with the same wariness a boxer does that of his opponent in the ring.  His eyes said plainly, “What the deuce are you doing here, sitting in my favorite chair, smoking one of my imported cigars, wearing my clothes, and talking to my daughter?”

“Glad to meet you, Mr. Whitford.  Yore daughter has just saved my life from the police,” the Westerner said, and his friendly smile was very much in evidence.

“You make yourself at home,” answered the owner of a large per cent of the stock of the famous Bird Cage mine.

“My guests do, Dad.  It’s the proof that I’m a perfect hostess,” retorted Beatrice, her dainty, provocative face flashing to mirth.

“Hmp!” grunted her father dryly.  “I’d like to know, young man, why the police are shadowing this house?”

“I expect they’re lookin’ for me.”

“I expect they are, and I’m not sure I won’t help them find you.  You’ll have to show cause if I don’t.”

“His bark is much worse than his bite,” the girl explained to Clay, just as though her father were not present.

“Hmp!” exploded the mining magnate a second time.  “Get busy, young fellow.”