"Do—do you know a Mr. Ned Winston?"
He shook his head, the locks of red hair showing conspicuously under the wide hat-brim.
"I r-reckon not. Leastwise, don't s-s-sorter seem to r-recall no such n-name, Miss. Was the g-gent a f-friend o' your 'n?"
"Y-yes. He is a mining engineer, and, I have been told, is under engagement at the 'Little Yankee.'"
Brown's eyes hardened, looking down into the upturned face, and his hands clinched in sudden awakening suspicion.
"You d-did, hey?" he questioned sullenly. "Wh-who told you that r-rot?"
"Farnham."
The man uttered an unrestrained oath, fully believing now that he was being led into a cunningly devised trap. His mental operations were slow, but he was swift and tenacious enough in prejudice. He stopped still, and the two stood silently facing each other, the same vague spectre of suspicion alive in the minds of both.
"Farnham," the man muttered, for one instant thrown off his guard from surprise. "How th-the hell d-d-did he g-git hold o' that?"
"I don't know; but is n't it true?"