Miller interrupted him. He was staring at his own wrists, as though puzzled.
“I thought there’d be handcuffs on them,” he said. “Much obliged. I’d hate to go out through that lobby handcuffed.”
“What did you go to pull a gun on me for, that a way?” the Ranger demanded. “You’re a pretty darn lucky feller not to be dead this minute. You would be, if I couldn’t see, first look, that you hadn’t any speed.”
“It’s been twenty-two years since I pulled a gun, or even wore one,” Miller said. “But I wasn’t pulling it on you.”
“Of course not.”
“No, I wasn’t, really. It was for myself.” He leaned forward and looked into the Ranger’s eyes earnestly. “See here, Carmichael! Couldn’t the thing be fixed that way? I’ll give you my word of honor I don’t want to hurt anybody else. Couldn’t you let me have that pistol of mine back and go out of the room for a minute? That would make the least trouble. For all concerned. Couldn’t it be fixed?”
He seemed to think instantly of an amendment to this, and added:
“And you could let it stand that I’m a stranger named Andrew Miller—my papers prove it. Couldn’t that be done, too? So that the old business never came out at all? Couldn’t it?”
There was sincerity in the man’s eyes. He meant what he said.
And he was not Andrew Miller, but somebody else. Who? He obviously thought the Ranger knew. Until he himself gave some clew to his identity the thing must be handled with tact.