“How’s that?”
“I don’t know. The report came in only last night. It’s a queer document. Here it is. Study it at your leisure.... It seems a big force of men have been working there for months. Piers have been put in—only to sink.”
“Sink!” ejaculated Neale. “WHEW! That’s a stumper!... Chief, the survey is mine. I’ll never forget how I worked on it.”
“Could you have made a mistake?”
“Of course,” replied Neale, readily. “But I’d never believe that unless I saw it. A tough job it was—but just the kind of work I eat up.”
“Well, you can go out and eat it up some more.”
“That means I’ll have to camp out there. I can’t get back to Benton.”
“No, you can’t. And isn’t that just as well?” queried the chief, with his keen, dark glance on Neale. “Son, I’ve heard your name coupled with gamblers—and that Stanton woman.”
“No doubt. I know them. I’ve been—seeking some trace of—Allie.”
“You still hope to find her? You still imagine some of this riffraff Benton gang made off with her?”