“I do not know how I came.  I was unconscious until I woke up in that cell.  I was on the platform of an observation car the last I remember,” his utterance slow, as though his mind struggled with a vague memory, “talking with a gentleman whom I had met on the train.  There—­there must have been an accident, I think, for I never knew anything more until I woke up here.”

“Do you know how long ago that was?”

He shook his head.

“It was a long while.  There has been no light, so I could not count the days, but, if they have fed me twice every twenty-hours, it is certainly a month since I came.”

“A month!  Do you recall the name of the man you were conversing with on the observation car?”

He pressed his hand against his forehead, a wrinkle appearing straight between his eyes.

“I’ve tried to remember that,” he admitted regretfully, “but it doesn’t quite come to me.”

“Was it Beaton?”

“Yes.  Why, how strange!  Of course, he was Edward Beaton, of New York.  He told me he was a broker.  Why, how did you know?”

She hesitated for an instant, uncertain just how far it was best to confide in him.  Unquestionably, the man’s mind was not entirely clear, and he might say and do things to the injury of them both if he once became aware of the whole truth.  Besides, the meeting him there alive was in itself a shock.  She had firmly believed him dead—­murdered in New York.  No, she would keep that part of the story to herself for the present; let it be told to him later by others.

“It is not so strange,” she said at last, “for your disappearance is indirectly the occasion of my being here also.  I believe I can even call you by name.  You are Mr. Cavendish?”

“Yes,” he admitted, his hands gripping the back of the bench nervously, his eyes filled with amazement “But—­but I do not know you.”

“For the best of reasons,” she answered smilingly, advancing and extending her hand—­“because we have never met before.  However mysterious all this must seem to you, Mr. Cavendish, it is extremely simple when explained.  I am Stella Donovan, a newspaperwoman.  Your strange disappearance about a month ago aroused considerable interest, and I chanced to be detailed on the case.  My investigations led me to visit Haskell, where unfortunately my mission became known to those who were responsible for your imprisonment here.  So, to keep me quiet, I was also abducted and brought to this place.”

“You—­you mean it was not an accident—­that I was brought here purposely?”

“Exactly; you were trailed from New York by a gang of thieves having confederates in this country.  I am unable to give you all the details; but this man Beaton, whom you met on the train, is a notorious gunman and gambler.  His being on the same train with you was a part of a well-laid plan, and I have no doubt but what he deliberately slugged you while you two were alone on the observation platform.  As I understand, that is exactly his line of work.”