Hapgood’s face, seen now clearly, was as smug as ever, but there had been wrought in it a subtle change.  In place of the fresh, pink complexion, the desert had given him a healthy coat of tan.  But that, while Conniston was quick to note it, was not the change that startled him.  There was an indefinable something in Hapgood’s eyes, at the corners of his thin-lipped mouth, that had not been there before.  Conniston wondered if the hand of this Western country had touched the inner man as it had the outer, if the new life had found certain small seeds of strength in the heretofore futile Hapgood and were developing them?

Hapgood’s manner, however, was unchanged, irreproachable.  He placed salt and pepper, bread, butter, whatever it was that Mr. Crawford wanted, before him before the older man had realized that he wanted it.  His attitude toward Argyl was at all times deferential, eloquent of respectful admiration.  Hapgood was nothing if not urbane.  Toward Conniston, however, he did not once glance.  To his way of thinking, evidently, there were but three people in the room—­the wonderfully masterful Mr. Crawford, the radiantly beautiful Argyl, the deeply appreciative Hapgood—­and certain negligible, necessary furniture.

During the short meal Mr. Crawford spoke little, contenting himself with a few light remarks to Argyl and the others.  Often he ate in silence, abstractedly.  Argyl had looked curiously at him and thereafter offered few words.  Hapgood took his cue from the masterful Mr. Crawford.  Conniston smoked and watched the three of them, his eyes finding oftenest Argyl and resting longest upon her.  Finally, when he had finished and pushed away his plate, taking the cigar Argyl offered him, Mr. Crawford spoke shortly, emphatically.

“I got word to-day from the men we have been expecting from Denver.  They have gone to work by now.”

“Under Bat Truxton?” demanded Conniston, quickly.

The older man cut off the end of his cigar, rolled the black perfecto between his lips, and lighted it before he replied.

“They have gone to work,” he repeated, as though discussing a matter of no moment, “for Oliver Swinnerton.  Shall we go into the front room?  I want to ask you some questions about the work, Conniston.  I did not have a chance to see Truxton this afternoon.”

He rose and led the way into the other room.  Conniston, casting a swift glance at Argyl’s face, which had suddenly gone white, followed him.  Argyl had stepped forward as though to go with them when Hapgood laid a detaining hand lightly, respectfully, upon her arm.

“May I speak with you a moment, Miss Argyl?” he whispered, but not so low that Conniston did not catch the words distinctly.  “It will take just a moment, and—­and it is very important.”

Reluctantly she paused.  Conniston went out and heard Hapgood shut the door after him.  He shrugged his shoulders.