"You know that letter from Miss Walton Judge Driver threw in the fire—the one you heard me telling Judge Donelson about?" went on Billy. "Yeah, that one. It might have fooled me—I'm only human, you know, if——"
"You're too modest," Tip interrupted dryly.
"If it hadn't been for one or two li'l things," resumed Billy. "The handwriting was a fine imitation—you couldn't beat it. But I knew she hadn't written it." He paused, and began to roll a cigarette.
Rafe Tuckleton passed his tongue across his lips. The district attorney looked down at his locked hands. Of the three Tip O'Gorman was the only one to remain his natural self.
"G'on," urged Tip, "give it a name."
"You see," said Billy, "Skinny Shindle told me Miss Walton gave him the note about 2.30 P.M. Now on that afternoon I happened to be at the Prescott ranch. Miss Walton was there visiting Miss Prescott. I didn't leave the Prescotts' till nearly three o'clock, and Miss Walton was still there and intending to spend the night. That's how I knew she couldn't have written that note."
"Nine miles from Prescott's to Walton's," said Tip.
"Nearer ten," corrected Billy. "Skinny was sure careless. So were several other men. You've got to make things fit."
He nodded kindly to the company and abruptly departed with his companion.
"I wonder what he meant by 'making things fit,'" mused the district attorney, following five minutes' silence.