“Does the man—Philip’s father—call himself by his right name?”
Bromley’s smile was bleak. “No; he is known as ‘Deadwood’ Kent. It seems that he had decency enough to take an alias—though it might have been only for his own protection.”
“You think there is no doubt but that he took the bank’s money?”
The bleak smile came again. “The man I’ve been looking up this evening has done a good many worse things than robbing a bank, if half of what people say about him is true.”
“Poor Philip!” she sighed, and bent lower over her sewing. Then: “He ought not to stay here in Denver, Harry. Can’t you persuade him to go away?”
“Who? Philip, or the Kent person?”
“I meant Philip, of course.”
“I doubt if he’ll budge. Yesterday he outfitted Garth to go prospecting again, and said he had half a mind to go along. But when Garth urged him, he said no; that he’d be a coward if he took to the hills.”
She nodded. “I told you he would punish himself. It is pitiful, isn’t it? Do you see much of him now?”
“Not as much as I should like to. He doesn’t dodge me particularly, but he is keeping all sorts of hours, and it is only a chance if I find him in his rooms when I go up.”