At the store the three friends made their way through the crowd of curious people who had gathered on the unexpected return of the chief actors in last night's drama; they made their way quickly round to the back where the private door was.
Lablache was within, and with him Horrocks. The heavy voice of the money-lender answered "Poker" John's summons.
"Come in."
He was surprised when the door opened, and he saw who his visitors were. John and the doctor he was prepared for, but "Lord" Bill's coming was a different matter. For an instant he seriously meditated an angry objection. Then he altered his mind, a thing which was rare with him. After all the man's presence could do no harm, and he felt that to object to him, would be to quarrel with the rancher. On second thoughts he would tolerate what he considered the intrusion.
Lablache was ensconced in his basket chair, and Horrocks was at the great man's desk. Neither moved as their visitors entered. The troubles of the previous night were plainly written on both men's faces. There was a haggard look in their eyes, and a generally dishevelled appearance about their dress. Lablache in particular looked unwashed and untidy. Horrocks looked less troubled, and there was a strong air of determination about his face.
"Poker" John showed no niceness in broaching the subject of his visit. His libations had roused him to the proper pitch for plain speaking.
"Well, what happened to you last night, Lablache? I guess you're looking about as blue as they make 'em. Say, I thought sure Retief was going to do for you when I heard about it."
"Ah. Who told you about—about me?"
"Your clerk."
"Rodgers?"