“Uncle Sherlock’s got some work to do, gentlemen, that ’ll keep him till twelve or one; but he’ll be down again then, or earlier if he can, and hopes some of you’ll be left to take a drink with him.”

“By George, he’s just a duke, boys!  Three cheers for Sherlock Holmes, the greatest man that ever lived!” shouted Ferguson.  “Hip, hip, hip—­”

“Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!  Tiger!”

The uproar shook the building, so hearty was the feeling the boys put into their welcome.  Up-stairs the uncle reproached the nephew gently, saying: 

“What did you get me into that engagement for?”

“I reckon you don’t want to be unpopular, do you, uncle?  Well, then, don’t you put on any exclusiveness in a mining-camp, that’s all.  The boys admire you; but if you was to leave without taking a drink with them, they’d set you down for a snob.  And besides, you said you had home talk enough in stock to keep us up and at it half the night.”

The boy was right, and wise—­the uncle acknowledged it.  The boy was wise in another detail which he did not mention—­except to himself:  “Uncle and the others will come handy—­in the way of nailing an alibi where it can’t be budged.”

He and his uncle talked diligently about three hours.  Then, about midnight, Fetlock stepped down-stairs and took a position in the dark a dozen steps from the tavern, and waited.  Five minutes later Flint Buckner came rocking out of the billiard-room and almost brushed him as he passed.

“I’ve got him!” muttered the boy.  He continued to himself, looking after the shadowy form:  “Good-by—­good-by for good, Flint Buckner; you called my mother a—­well, never mind what:  it’s all right, now; you’re taking your last walk, friend.”

He went musing back into the tavern.  “From now till one is an hour.  We’ll spend it with the boys; it’s good for the alibi.”

He brought Sherlock Holmes to the billiard-room, which was jammed with eager and admiring miners; the guest called the drinks, and the fun began.  Everybody was happy; everybody was complimentary; the ice was soon broken, songs, anecdotes, and more drinks followed, and the pregnant minutes flew.  At six minutes to one, when the jollity was at its highest—­

Boom!!

There was silence instantly.  The deep sound came rolling and rumbling frown peak to peak up the gorge, then died down, and ceased.  The spell broke, then, and the men made a rush for the door, saying: 

“Something’s blown up!”

Outside, a voice in the darkness said, “It’s away down the gorge; I saw the flash.”

The crowd poured down the canyon—­Holmes, Fetlock, Archy Stillman, everybody.  They made the mile in a few minutes.  By the light of a lantern they found the smooth and solid dirt floor of Flint Buckner’s cabin; of the cabin itself not a vestige remained, not a rag nor a splinter.  Nor any sign of Flint.  Search-parties sought here and there and yonder, and presently a cry went up.