“Sometimes I thought you didn’t realise, Jim,” he said. “You haven’t said a deal before. But you do, and I’m glad. You’re right. But for Blanche the worst of ’em wouldn’t matter a whoop in hell. But I’m crazy for Blanche, an’ I’d go stark, raving mad if things happened to her. No,” he finished up regretfully. “She wouldn’t quit. That’s the worst of it. That’s what——”
“Sets you so almighty crazy for the greatest woman I’ve ever known.”
Larry’s eyes shone responsively as Jim stood up. He pulled out his watch and looked at it. Then he, too, stood up, and for a moment gazed out into the twilit valley.
“I’ll round up that ‘stray’ for you, Jim,” he said, and stepped off the verandah.
Now a swinging oil lantern was shedding its warm light on the verandah. Jim Pryse was sitting at the table which the whisky decanter had recently occupied. A book like a ledger lay open before him. And Larry Manford was in occupation of a chair near by.
A shortish, stocky man, clad in a city suit, was standing before the table. He was black-eyed, with nearly a month’s growth of dark beard and whisker on his face. His eyes were small and narrow, and twinkled alertly, but without any amiability of expression.
“Name?” Pryse prepared to write. Then he added: “You don’t need to hand any name but that by which you wish to be known.”
“It don’t matter a curse, boss,” the man retorted sharply. “If this is the right joint folk reckon, names don’t need to worry. Richards knows me, anyway. Pike—Jack Pike. That’s the name I’ve carried fer most of ten years.”
“Wanted for?”