He lay there watching operations for several minutes, carefully studying out the situation.  He had no clearly defined plan, only a desire to learn exactly what was being done.  The office beyond the shaft was lighted, although the faint gleam was only dimly revealed along the edge of lowered curtains concealing the interior.  However, this evidence that some one was within served to attract Westcott’s attention, and he crept around, under the shadow of the dump, and approached the farther corner.  He could perceive now two men on the hoisting platform, and hear the growl of their voices, but without being able to distinguish speech.  Every few moments there sounded the crash of falling rock as the buckets were emptied.  Revolver in hand he made the round of the building to assure himself that no guard had been posted there, then chose the window farthest away from the shaft, and endeavoured to look in.

The heavy green curtain extended to the sill, but was slit in one corner.  With his eye close to this slight opening he gained a partial glimpse of the interior.  It was that of a rough office with a cot in one corner as though occasionally utilised for a sleeping room, the other furniture consisting of a small desk with roll-top, an unpainted table, and a few chairs.  In one corner stood a rusty-looking safe, the door open, and a fat-bellied wood-stove occupied the centre of the floor.

There were three men in the room, and Westcott drew a quick breath of surprise as he recognised the two faces fronting him—­Bill Lacy at the desk, a pipe in his mouth, his feet elevated on a convenient chair, and Beaton, leaning back against the wall, apparently half asleep with his eyes closed.  The third man was facing Lacy, but concealed by the stove; he seemed to be doing the talking, and held a paper in his hand resembling a map.  Suddenly he arose to his feet, and bent over the edge of the desk, and Westcott knew him—­Enright!

The man spoke earnestly, evidently arguing a point with emphasis, but the sound of his voice failed to penetrate to the ears of the listener without.  Desperately determined to learn what was being said, the miner thrust the heavy blade of his jack-knife beneath the ill-fitting window sash, and succeeded in noiselessly lifting it a scant half inch.  He bent lower, the speaker’s voice clearly audible through the narrow opening.

“That isn’t the point, Lacy,” the tone smooth enough, yet containing a trace of anger.  “You are paid to do these things the way I plan.  This mining proposition is all right, but our important job just now is at the other end.  A false move at this time will not only cost us a fortune, but would send some of us to the pen.  Don’t you know that?”

“Sure I do; but I thought this was my end of it.”