Matt and Dashington were alone in the dining room and, after the waiter had served them and gone away, they were able to talk privately.
"I had something up my sleeve, cull," said Dashington, "when I asked you to come in here with me. Here's where I have to quit you."
"Why can't you go on to New Orleans, Dash?" asked Matt. "I know Townsend. He's a good fellow, and he'll be so glad to get the diamonds back that I know he will not make you any trouble."
"You might be able to swing Townsend, all right," returned Dashington, "but the chap that has it in for me, old fel, is Jurgens. You've heard how he feels. He'd split on me, as sure as fate, and ring me in on the deal. No, I've got to duck, and right from this town. I've done what I could to square myself, and I'm going to put as much country between me and New Orleans as I can. It will be best, all around. You and I look too much alike to be in the same section of the country."
"You're going to stay straight, are you?" asked Matt, quietly.
"As long as I'm on the turf!" declared Dashington. "There's my hand on it."
Matt grasped cordially the hand Dashington offered him.
"Between two fellows who look so much alike as do you and I, Dash," said Matt, "there ought to be a bond of friendship. As long as you're straight, if you ever need help and I'm within hailing distance, let me know."
Dashington was silent for a space.