If Browning had been possessed of a conscience it might have troubled him when he was brought face to face with one of the sufferers from his crime; but he was a hard, selfish man, to whom his own interests were of supreme importance.
But something happened within an hour which gave him a feeling of anxiety.
He was just coming out of the Chicago post-office, at the corner of Adams and Clark Streets, when a hand was laid upon his shoulder.
"How are you, Butler?" said a tall man, wearing a Mexican sombrero. "I haven't set eyes upon you since we were together at Gold Gulch, in California."
Browning looked about him apprehensively. Fortunately he was some distance from the corner where Luke Walton was selling papers.
"I am well, thank you," he said.
"Are you living in Chicago?"
"No; I live in Wisconsin."
"Have you seen anything of the man you used to be with so much—Walton?"
"No; he died."