"Come on," Carney said, "we'll go back to the hotel and round up Hadley."
As they went out Carney locked the door, the key being still in the lock.
When the two men entered the Gold Nugget, Carney stepped behind the bar and turned up a wall lamp that was burning low. As he faced about he gave a start, and then hurried across the room to where a figure huddled in one of the big wooden arm chairs. It was Hadley—sound asleep, or pretending to be.
When Carney shook him the sleeper scrambled drunkenly to his feet blinking. Then the boy smile flitted foolishly over his lips, and he mumbled: "I say, how long've I been asleep—where's Seth?"
"What are you doing here asleep?" Carney asked, the crisp incisiveness of his voice wakening completely the rather fogged man.
"I sat down to wait for Seth. Guess the whisky made me sleepy—had a little too much of it."
"Where did you leave Seth—how long ago?"
"Over at the police shack; we quit the game and Seth said he'd tidy up for fear the Sergeant'd be back in the morning—throw out the empty bottles, and pick up the cigar stubs and matches, kind of tidy up. I came on to go to bed and——" Hadley spoke haltingly, as though his memory of his progress was still befogged—"when I got here I remembered that he'd got my wallet, and thought I'd sit down and wait so's to be sure he didn't forget to put it back in the iron box."
"Did you have a row with Seth when you broke up the game?"
Hadley flushed. He was in a slightly stupid condition. During his nap the whisky had sullenly subsided, leaving him a touch maudlin, surly.