Looking over her shoulders, he pointed to a spot in the distant mountain background of the sketch.
“In there is the site of the great Melody mine—”
“Melody—what? Why, what do you mean?” the girl stammered in renewed excitement.
“The Melody mine—that’s the name of the mine about which there is the litigation, you know. That’s where all the money for the theater came from. It’s the famous pot of gold—my Aladdin’s lamp—only it’s likely to change owners.”
“But why did you call it Melody?” Louisiana demanded, with glistening eyes.
“That’s all in the story, too,” laughed Brainard.
She dropped the picture into her lap, and, holding her little hands tightly clasped, fastened her eyes on Brainard’s face, as if what he had to say was of momentous interest to her. But that, he reflected, somewhat flattered, was just Louisiana’s way.
“Here goes, then, Miss Delacourt, for the story of my life, which explains that water-color sketch being in my possession!”
And Brainard retold the tale of _his_ great adventure since he played the part of good Samaritan to the dying stranger. It took some time to tell the story, and he did not hurry. The motor came back and waited below, while he went into all the details of the story with which we are familiar.
At certain places Louisiana opened her lips, as if she could not control an exclamation; but when Brainard paused, she merely motioned him impatiently to continue. As he told of his dropping from the train at the lonely water tank, and of the strange little girl who had guided him to Gunnison’s shack, Louisiana’s mobile lips parted in a curious smile. She was not so much interested in his Mexican adventures, nor in the European chapters, but when he described his first visit to the deserted house on the hill above Monument, the girl’s face sobered to a wistful expression, and she caught her breath as if she might sob.
“And there I missed her by a few weeks!” Brainard said.
Louisiana laughed aloud, as if it were all a joke.
“It sounds,” Brainard remarked, having rapidly concluded the account of his experiences as a miner, “like a dime-novel yarn, but it happens to be all true. And throughout my adventures, all through these six years, I’ve clung to the idea of just being the trustee for this unknown lady—this Miss Melody Krutzmacht, or whatever her real name may be. I think that is what has saved me from becoming a plain gambler, and the whole business no better than the melodrama Farson and I saw, _The Stolen Bonds_, where we met my old friend Hollinger. I’ve got Melody to thank for saving my moral character, as well as doing a lot else for me. But I haven’t much hope now of finding the lady, to thank her for anything!”