“Yes, Weir.”
The speaker’s eyes held the Senator’s in savage leash, and a slight tremble presently began to shake the old man. Atkinson and Meyers and even the volatile Mexican lawyer, Martinez, remained unstirring, for in the situation they suddenly sensed something beyond their ken, some current of deep unknown forces, some play of fierce, obscure and fateful passion.
A shadow of gray stole over Gordon’s lineaments.
“You are––are the son of–––” came gasping forth.
“I am. His son.”
“And––and–––”
“And I know what happened thirty years ago in this selfsame room!”
The whisky that the Senator had poured into his glass suddenly slopped over his fingers; his figure all at once appeared more aged, hollow, bent. Without further word, with his hand still shaking, he set the glass on the bar, mechanically picked up the law book and walked feebly towards the door.
Steele Weir turned his gaze on the saloon-keeper, Vorse. The man’s right hand was under the bar and he seemed to be awaiting the engineer’s next move, taut, tight-lipped, malignant.
“That was for you too, Vorse,” was flung at him. “One Weir went out of here, but another has returned.”