Talbot did not utter a word. Fate had turned against him, and he was sullen and desperate.
"How did they suspect?" he asked himself; but no answer suggested itself.
CHAPTER XXIII. THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM.
In the house on Houston street, Bill wasted little regret on the absence of his wife and child. Neither did he trouble himself to speculate as to where she had gone.
"I'm better without her," he said to his confederate, Mike. "She's always a-whinin' and complainin', Nance is. It makes me sick to see her. If I speak a rough word to her, and it stands to reason a chap can't always be soft-spoken, she begins to cry. I like to see a woman have some spirit, I do."
"They may have too much," said Mike, shrugging his shoulders. "My missus ain't much like yours. She don't cry, she don't. If I speak rough to her, she ups with something and flings it at my head. That's her style."
"And what do you do?" asked Bill, in some curiosity.
"Oh, I just leave her to get over it; that's the best way."