His dull, sunken eyes were akindle, and he leaned forward, an agony of eagerness in his eyes. The prison-born look of age fell from him for the moment and it became apparent that he was not only a young man, but must once have been a comely one, with a powerful frame.
“I heard you were attorney for the Company here,” he went on, as Westcott still kept silent. “You ought to be able to do that for me. You had fifteen hundred of mine.”
The attorney flinched, ever so slightly, then he rose, dropping the revolver into his coat-pocket, and took a turn about the room.
“I—I wasn’t such a beast as it looks,” he finally said, speaking with difficulty. “I’ve been ashamed of myself: I meant to stay and try to clear you. I don’t know how I came to do it; but Jim Texas swore’t was you; and I lost the money playing faro at Randy Melone’s.”
The brief glow in the sunken eyes had burned itself out. The man surveyed Westcott, apparently without interest.
“Jim Texas lied,” he said, apathetically, “and now you’re lying. You paid some of that money to Raoul Marty for a horse; and you got away with most of the rest of it in your clothes. You can hear things, even in jail.” This was said with a weary laugh, in which was no mirth.
“You don’t always hear ’em straight,” the attorney replied, with studied gentleness.
“I was ashamed, Barker,” he went on, quickly. “I’ve been sorry ever since.”
“Then you’ll give me the price of a ticket?” Hope gleamed again, in the dull eyes. Westcott considered.
“I haven’t got the money here,” he mused; “but I think I can raise some by to-morrow. How would you get down to the railroad?”