The girl looked straight into his honest, clear eyes.  His remark opened a vast field for speculation.  “You think he is alive then?” she said earnestly.  “It is an interesting hypothesis.  Perhaps—­perhaps he may be in this neighbourhood, even.  And that,” she added, her Irish eyes alight, “would be more interesting still.”

“I hadn’t finished my argument when that carriage appeared,” Westcott answered.  “Do you remember?  Well, that might be the answer.  Beaton has been in this neighbourhood ever since about the time of that murder in New York.  Nobody knows what his business is, but he is hand-in-glove with Bill Lacy and his gang.  Lacy, besides running a saloon, pretends to be a mining speculator, but it is my opinion there is nothing he wouldn’t do for money, if he considered the game safe.  And now, with everything quiet in the East, and no thought that there is any suspicion remaining, Beaton sends for the woman to join him here.  Why?  Because there is some job to be done too big for him to tackle alone.  He’s merely a gunman; he can do the strong-arm stuff, all right, but lacks brains.  There is a problem out here requiring a little intellect; and it is my guess it is how to dispose of Cavendish until they can get away safely with the swag.”

“Exactly!  That would be a stake worth playing for.”

“It certainly would; and, as I figure it out, that is their game.  John Cavendish is merely the catspaw.  Right now there is nothing for them to do but wait until the boy gets full possession of the property; then they’ll put the screws on him good and proper.  Meantime Frederick must be kept out of sight—­must remain dead.”

“I wonder how this was ever planned out—­if it be true?”

“It must have originated in some cunning, criminal brain,” he admitted thoughtfully.  “Not Beaton’s, surely; and, while she is probably much brighter, I am inclined to think the girl is merely acting under orders.  There is somebody connected with this scheme higher up—­a master criminal.”

Miss Donovan was no fool; newspaper work had taught her to suspect men of intellect, and that nothing, however wicked, low or depraved, was beyond them.

“Enright!” she said definitely.  “Obviously now.  I’ve thought so from the first.  But always he worked so carefully, so guardedly, that sometimes I have doubted.  But now I say without qualifications—­Enright, smooth Mr. Enright, late of New York.”

“That’s my bet,” Westcott agreed, his hand on her shoulder, forgetful of his intense earnestness, “Enright is the only one who could do it, and he has schemed so as to get John into a hole where he dare not emit a sound, no matter what they do to him.  Do you see?  If the boy breathes a suspicion he’ll be indicted for murder.  If they can only succeed in keeping Frederick safely out of sight until after the court awards the property to his heir, they can milk John at their leisure.  It’s a lawyer’s graft, all right.”