"I didn't notice them particularly," I replied. "I understood they were Denver people—friends of somebody in the railroad management."
"There was women," he said significantly.
"I know; I saw some of them."
"Yes; and be the same token, there was one of them lamped yous off. I listened at her askin' one o' the men who you was; d'ye see?"
Instantly I began to ransack my brain for the possibilities, and almost at once the talk on the train with Horace Barton, the wagon sales manager, flashed into the field of recollection.
"Could you describe the woman for me?" I asked.
Dorgan made hard work of this, though it was evident that he was trying his best. His description would have fitted any one of a round million of American women, I suppose; yet out of it I thought I could draw some faint touches of familiarity. The stumbling description, coupled with Barton's assertion that Agatha Geddis was living in Colorado, fitted together only too well.
"Did you hear what she said to the man?" I inquired, and my mouth was dry.
"On'y a bit of it. She says, says she: 'Who is that man wit' a French beard—the young man in his shirt-sleeves?' The felly she t'rowed this into was one o' the kid-gloves, and he didn't know. So he went to Shelton, who was showin' the crowd around on the job. When he comes back, he tells her your name is Jim Bertrand, and that you makes a noise like the camp paymaster."
"Well?" I prompted. "Go on."