Westcott reached this decision and the outer office at the same time, exchanged a careless word or two with Timmons, and finally purchased a cigar and retired to one corner to peruse an old newspaper.  It was not so easy to read, however, for the news failed to interest or keep his mind from wandering widely.  Soon he was staring out through the unwashed window, oblivious to everything but his own thoughts.

Who was this Beaton, and what connection could he have with Bill Lacy’s gang?  The row last night had revealed a mutual interest between the men, but what was its nature?  To Westcott’s judgment the burly New Yorker did not resemble an Eastern speculator in mining property; he was far more typical of a Bowery rough—­a tool rather than an employer in the commission of crime.

Lacy’s purpose he believed he understood to some extent—­a claim that it was an extension of the La Rosita vein which Westcott had tapped in his recent discovery.  There had been bad blood between them for some time—­threats of violence, and rumours of lawsuits.  No doubt Lacy would resort to any dirty trick to get him out of the way and gain control of the property.  But he had no personal fear of Lacy:  not, at least, if he could once get the backing of Cavendish’s money.  But these other people—­Beaton, Miss Donovan, and still another expected to arrive soon from the East—­how were they connected with the deal?

How were they involved in the controversy?  Had Lacy organised a company and got hold of some money in New York?  It might be possible, and yet neither the man nor the woman impressed him as financiers risking fortunes in the exploitation of mines.  The problem was unsolvable; the only thing he could do was guard his property and wait until they showed their hand.  If he could only hear from Fred Cavendish——­

He was so deeply engrossed in these thoughts, the smoked-out cigar substituted by a pipe, that he remained unaware that Timmons had left the office, or that the Chinese man-of-all-work had silently tiptoed down the stairs and was cautiously peering in through the open doorway to make sure the coast was clear.  Assured as to this, the wily Oriental sidled noiselessly across the floor and paused beside him.

“Zis Meester Vest-c-ott?” he asked softly.

The miner looked up at the implacable face in surprise, lowering his feet.

“That’s my name, John; what is it?”

The messenger shook a folded paper out of his sleeve, thrust it into the other’s hand hastily, and, with a hurried glance about, started to glide away as silently as he had come.  Westcott stared at the note, which was unaddressed.

“Sure this is for me, John?”

“Ally same sure—­for Meester Vest-c-ott.”

He vanished into the dark hall, and there was the faint clatter of his shoes on the stairs.

Westcott, fully aroused, cast his glance about the deserted room, and unfolded the paper which had been left in his fingers.  His eyes took in the few penciled words instantly.