To return to the scene of the night before. When the bar-room had settled down to normal, and no one showed a disposition to do any general buying, Riles betook himself to his room. He had just got into bed when a knock came at the door.
"Who's there?" he demanded.
"Gen'l'man to see Mr. Riles," said the porter.
"Well, shoot 'im in. The door ain't locked," said Riles, in considerable wonderment as to who his visitor might be.
The door opened, and a well-dressed man of average height, with carefully combed hair and clean-shaven face, save for a light moustache, stood revealed in the uncertain glow of the match with which Riles was endeavouring to find his lamp. His visitor was a man of twenty-eight or thirty years, with clear eyes and well-cut face, and yet with some subtle quality in his expression that implied that under his fair exterior lay a deep, cunning, and that he was a man not to be trusted in matters where his own interests might be at stake.
"Hello, Hiram," he said quietly. "You didn't figure on seeing me here, did you?"
At first glance Riles did not recognize him, and he raised the oil lamp to turn the light better on the stranger's face.
"Well, if it ain't Gardiner!" he exclaimed. "Where in Sam Hill did you come from?"
"It's a big country, Hiram," he said with a touch of bitterness, "but not big enough for a fellow to lose himself in." He sat down on the side of the bed and lit a cigar, tendering another to Riles, and the two men puffed in silence for a few minutes.
"Yes, I've hit a lot of trail since I saw you last," he continued, "and when you're in the shadow of the Rockies you're a long piece from Plainville. How's the old burg? Dead as ever?"