“I thought I’d seen you somewhere before”—Carle-ton’s voice sounded strained and hollow in his own ears. “It must have been the picture. I remember now. You—you killed a man in Denver a year ago.”
“It’s all there,” said Marley, licking his lips again. “I never saw him before. I killed him like I almost killed Boileau this summer. I didn’t know till afterward that he was rich, not until the family hung out that reward.”
Carleton did not speak. Regan reached viciously for his plug. Marley stirred uneasily, and drew the back of his hand across his forehead. It came away soggy wet. In the silence the chime of the Limited’s whistle floated in through the open window, then, presently, the roar of the train and the grinding shriek of the brake-shoes.
“My God,” said Carleton in a whisper, “you want me to give you up and get the reward—for her!”
A queer smile flickered across Marley’s face. Heavy steps came running up the stairs. There was a smart rap upon the door and a man stepped quickly inside. For a second his eyes swept the little group. Then he whirled like a flash, and the blue-black muzzle of a revolver held a bead on Marley’s heart.
“Ah, Shorty,” he cried grimly, “we’ve got you at last, eh? Put out your hands!”
Without protest, with the same queer smile on his face, Marley obeyed. There was a little click of steel, and he dropped his locked wrists before him.
“You’re Mr. Carleton, aren’t you?”—the newcomer had swung to the desk.
“Yes,” said Carleton numbly.
“I’m Hepburn of the Denver police,” went on the officer. “We appreciate this, Mr. Carleton. Shorty here has been badly wanted for a long time. We got your letter yesterday.”