"But you married him."

    She nodded. "He courted me all during the blizzard, and when the sun finally broke through the clouds on the fourteenth day, I accepted his proposal. Mother and Dad were distraught, of course, but Jake won them over, too."

    "You couldn't have been married long?"

    "I saw him for the last time a year later."

    "The day he and the others were lost in the Little Angel." It was more statement than question.

    "Yes," she said wistfully. She avoided his stare and looked nervously toward the kitchen. "My goodness, I'd better fix us some lunch. You must be starving, Mr. Seagram."

    But Seagram's businesslike expression faded and his eyes came alight with sudden excitement. "You heard from Jake after the Little Angel accident, didn't you, Mrs. Austin?"

    She seemed to retreat into the cushions of her chair. Apprehension spread across her gentle face. "I don't know what you mean."

    "I think you do," he said softly.

    "No . . . no, you're mistaken."

    "Why are you afraid?"

    Her hands were trembling now. "I've told you all I can."

    "There's more, much more, Mrs. Austin." He reached over and took her hands. "Why are you afraid?" he repeated.

    "I'm sworn to secrecy," she murmured.

    "Can you explain?"

    She said, hesitantly, "You're with the government, Mr. Seagram. You know what it is to keep a secret."

    "Who was it? Jake? Did he ask you to remain silent?"

    She shook her head.

    "Then who?"

    "Please believe me," she pleaded. "I can't tell you . . . I can't tell you anything."

    Seagram stood up and looked down on her. She seemed to have aged, the wrinkles etched more deeply in her ancient skin. She had withdrawn into a shell. It would take a mild form of shock treatment to get her to open up.

    "May I use your telephone, Mrs. Austin?"

    "Yes, of course. You'll find the nearest extension in the kitchen''

    It was seven minutes before the familiar voice came through the earpiece. Quickly, Seagram explained the situation and made his request. Then he turned back to the living room. "Mrs. Austin. Can you come here a moment?"

    Timidly, she approached him.

    He handed her the receiver. "Here is someone who wishes to speak to you."

    Cautiously, she took it from his hands. "Hello," she muttered, "this is Adeline Austin."

    For a brief instant, an expression of confusion was mirrored in her eyes, then it was slowly transformed and froze into genuine astonishment. She kept nodding, saying nothing, as though the detached voice over the line was standing before her.

    Finally, at the end of the one-sided conversation, she managed to utter a few words "Yes, sir . . . I will. Goodby."

    Slowly, she replaced the receiver and stood in a trancelike bewilderment. "Was . . . was that really the President of the United States?"

    "It was. You can verify it if you wish. Call long distance and ask for the White House. When they answer, talk to Gregg Collins. He's the President's chief aide. It was he who passed along my call."

    "Just imagine, the President asked me to help him." She shook her head dazedly. "I can't believe it really happened."

    "It happened, Mrs. Austin. Believe me, any information you can give us concerning your first husband and the strange circumstances surrounding his death would be of great benefit to the nation. I know that sounds like a trite way of stating it, but . . ."

    "Who can turn down a President?" The sweet smile was back. The tremor was gone from Adeline's hands. She was back on balance, outwardly, at least.

    Seagram took her arm and gently guided her back to her chair in the living room. "Now then, tell me about Jake Hobart's relationship with Joshua Hays Brewster."

    "Jake was an explosives specialist, a blaster, one of the best in the fields. He knew dynamite like a blacksmith knew his forge, and since Mr. Brewster insisted on only the top men to make up his mining crews, he often hired Jake to handle the blasting."

    "Did Brewster know Jake was married?"

    "Odd you should ask that. We had a little house in Boulder, away from the mining camps, because Jake didn't want it known he had a wife. He claimed that mine foremen wouldn't hire a blaster who was married."

    "So naturally, Brewster, unaware of Jake's marital status, paid him to blast in the Little Angel mine."

    "I know what was printed in the newspapers, Mr. Seagram, but Jake never set foot in the Little Angel mine, nor did the rest of the crew."

    Seagram pulled his chair closer so that they were almost touching knees. "Then the disaster was a hoax," he said hoarsely.

    She looked up. "You know . . . you know that?"

    "We suspected, but have no proof."

    "If it's proof you want, Mr. Austin, I'll get it for you." She rose to her feet, shrugging off Seagram's attempts to help her, and disappeared into another room. She returned carrying an old shoebox, which she proceeded to open reverently.

    "The day before he was to enter the Little Angel, Jake took me down to Denver and we went on a shopping spree. He bought me fancy clothes, jewelry, and treated me to champagne at the finest restaurant in town. We spent our last night together in the honeymoon suite of the Brown Palace Hotel. Do you know of it?"

    "I have a friend staying there right now."

    "In the morning, he told me not to believe what I heard or read in the newspapers about his death in a mining accident, and that he would be gone for several months on a job somewhere in Russia. When he returned, he said we would be rich beyond our wildest dreams. Then he mentioned something I've never understood."

    "What was that?"

    "He said the Frenchies were taking care of everything and that when it was all over, we would live in Paris." Her face took on a dreamlike quality. "In the morning he was gone. on his pillow was a note that simply said, 'I love you, Ad' and an envelope containing five thousand dollars."

    "Do you have any idea where the money came from?"

    "None. We only had about three hundred dollars in the bank at the time."

    "And that was the last you heard from him?"

    "No." She handed Seagram a faded postcard with a tinted photograph of the Eiffel Tower on the front. "This came in the mail about a month later."

    Dear Ad, The weather is rainy here and the beer awful. Am fine and so is the other boys. Don't fret. As you can tell I ain't dead by a long shot. You know who.

    The handwriting was obviously from a heavy hand. The postmark on the card was dated Paris, December 1, 1911.

    "It was followed in a week by a second card," Adeline said as she handed it to Seagram. It depicted Sacra Coeur but was postmarked Le Havre.

    DearAd, We're headin for the arctic. This will be my last message for some time. Be brave. The Frenchies are treating us right. Good food, good ship. You know who.

    "You're certain it's Jake's handwriting?" Seagram asked. "Absolutely. I have other papers and old letters of Jake's. You can compare them if you wish."

    "That won't be necessary, Ad." She smiled when she heard her nickname. "Was there any further communication?"