Badger-face tried to raise himself on his elbow, but he couldn’t quite make it. “Yes, I did,” sez he, droppin’ back again. “What became of it?”
“I am keepin’ it for ya,” sez the Friar. “Do you wish to leave any word in case you do not recover?”
“No,” sez Badger, “the’ ain’t no one to leave word to. That letter was from my mother, an’ that was her picture. She’s been dead a long string o’ years now.”
“There was another picture an’ a newspaper clippin’,” sez the Friar.
Badger-face didn’t give no heed; an’ after a time the Friar sez: “What shall I do with them?”
“Throw ’em away,” sez Badger-face. “They don’t concern me none. I was more took with that woman’s picture ’n airy other I ever saw. That was all.”
“Where did you get it?” asked the Friar.
“I got it from a young Dutchy,” sez Badger wearily. “He killed a feller over at Leadville an’ came out here an’ took on with Ty Jones. He said she was an opery singer, an’ got drugged at a hotel where he was workin’.”
Badger-face was gettin’ purty weak by now, an’ he stopped with a sort of sigh. The Friar took holt of his hand. “I am very much interested in this woman,” he said, lookin’ into Badger’s face as if tryin’ to give him life enough to go on with. “Can you tell me anything else about her?”
“Not much,” sez Badger-face. “She was singin’ at what he called the Winter Garden at Berlin, Germany. Some Austrian nobility got mashed on her an’ drugged her at the hotel. Dutchy was mashed on her, too, I reckon. They had advertised for him in a New York paper, an’ when he got shot, over at Little Monte’s dance hall, he asked me to write about it. His mother had died leavin’ property, an’ all they wanted was to round up the heirs. I reckon they were glad enough to have Dutchy scratched from the list. I don’t know why I did keep that clippin’.”