"Yes, I'd sell my soul to the devil himself!"
"Maybe the old man would be dead off the deal. Likely he reckons you a dead cert. already, Stanninghame."
Laurence did not start at the voice, which was that of Hazon, whose shadow darkened the door. The up-country man at that moment especially noticed that he did not.
"Dare say you're right, Hazon," was the reply. "That's it, come in," which the other had already done. "Talking out loud, was I? It's a d—— bad habit, and grows on one."
"It does. Say, though, what game were you up to with that plaything?" glancing meaningly at the six-shooter lying on the table.
"This? Oh, I thought likely it wanted cleaning."
"So?" and the corners of Hazon's saturnine mouth drooped in ever so faint a grin as his keen eyes fixed themselves for a moment full upon the other's face. Laurence had forgotten the tell-tale imprint left in the centre of his forehead by the muzzle. "So? See here, Stanninghame, don't be at the trouble to invent any more sick old lies, but put the thing away. It might go off. Don't mind me; I've been through the same stage myself."
"Have you? How did it feel, eh?" said Laurence, with a sort of weary imperturbability, filling his pipe and pushing the pouch across the table to his friend.
"Bad. Ah, that's right! Instead of fooling about 'cleaning' guns at such times, fill your pipe. That's the right lay, depend upon it."
Laurence made no reply, but lighting up, puffed away in silence. His thoughts were wandering from Hazon.