“Billy,” said I, “there’s the deuce to pay.  You’re an old friend of mine, and you possess a share of discretion, and you’ve got to help me.  Le Mire is gone.  I must find her.”

“Find Le Mire?” He stared at me in amazement.  “What for?”

“Because my brother Harry is with her.”

Then I explained in as few words as possible, and I ended, I think, with something like this: 

“You know, Billy, there are very few things in the world I consider of any value.  She can have the lad’s money, and, if necessary, my own into the bargain.  But the name of Lamar must remain clean; and I tell you there is more than a name in danger.  Whoever that woman touches she kills.  And Harry is only a boy.”

Billy helped me, as I knew he would; nor did he insist on unnecessary details.  I didn’t need his assistance in the search, for I felt that I could accomplish that as well alone.

But it was certainly known that Harry had been calling on Le Mire at her hotel; conjectures were sure to be made, leading to the assertions of busy tongues; and it was the part of my friend to counteract and smother the inevitable gossip.  This he promised to do; and I knew Billy.  As for finding Harry, it was too late to do anything that night, and I went home and to bed.

The next morning I began by calling at her hotel.  But though the manager of the theater had gotten no information from them, he had pumped them dry.  They knew nothing.

I dared not go to the police, and probably they would have been unable to give me any assistance if I had sought it.  The only other possible source of information I disliked to use; but after racking my brain for the better part of the day I decided that there was nothing else for it, and started on a round of the ticket offices of the railroads and steamship companies.

I had immediate success.  My first call was at the office where Harry and I were accustomed to arrange our transportation.  As I entered the head clerk—­or whatever they call him—­advanced to greet me with a smile.

“Yes,” said he in response to my question; “Mr. Lamar got his tickets from me.  Let’s see—­Thursday, wasn’t it?  No, Friday.  That’s right—­Friday.”

“Tickets!” I muttered to myself.  And in my preoccupation I really neglected to listen to him.  Then aloud:  “Where were the—­ tickets for?”

“Denver.”

“For Friday’s train?”

“Yes.  The Western Express.”

That was all I wanted to know.  I hurried home, procured a couple of hastily packed bags, and took the afternoon train for the West.

Chapter III.

A modern Marana.

My journey westward was an eventful one; but this is not a “History of Tom Jones,” and I shall refrain from detail.  Denver I reached at last, after a week’s stop-over in Kansas City.  It was a delightful adventure—­but it had nothing to do with the story.