Senator Gordon moistened his lips and tugged nervously at his gray mustache.
“No, no,” he exclaimed. “Just ask Vorse. The man said his name was Weir and that he was the son of Joe Weir. Then––then–––”
“Well?” Sorenson demanded, frowning at the other’s visible trepidation.
“Weir added, ‘And I know what happened thirty years ago in this selfsame room.’ Those were his very words. Isn’t that true, Vorse?”
“Yes.”
“They could mean only one thing,” said Gordon.
“When the Judge went out he said to me,” Vorse stated, “‘That was for you too.’ I had my hand on my gun under the counter as he said it, ready if he made a move. He knew what I had there, but it didn’t faze him. He’s a better man than Joe Weir ever was, I want to remark, and different; he has nerve and a bad eye. He knows something, lay your bets on that.”
“How much? How much? If we only knew how much!” Judge Gordon vouchsafed, testily.
“How would he know anything? Joe Weir didn’t know, so how can this fellow know? Don’t get scared at a shadow.” It was the bearded, rough-tongued Burkhardt who spoke, concluding his words with a blasphemous oath.
“There’s the Mexican who saw what happened––and that boy who looked in at the back door,” Gordon asserted. “We just caught sight of him and couldn’t make out his face against the light. Then he had skipped when we ran there. We never did learn who he was.”