There was a moment’s silence, then the man laughed as though slightly ill at ease.

“These fellows out here think they are a pretty tough lot,” he said grimly, “but there are plenty of boys back on the East Side who could show them a few tricks.  You know that part of the old town?”

“Not very well,” she admitted with apparent regret, “but of course I read a good bit about it in the papers—­the desperate characters, gunmen, and all those the police have so much trouble with.  Are those stories really true?”

“There ain’t a third of them ever told,” and he leaned forward, quite at his ease again.  “I have some business interests down that way, and so hear a good deal of what is going on at first hand.  A New York gunman is so much worse than these amateurs out here there ain’t no comparison.  Why, I know a case——­”

He stopped suddenly and took a sip of coffee.

“Tell me about it.”

“’Tisn’t anything to interest you, and, besides, it wouldn’t sound well here at the table; some other time, maybe, when you and I get better acquainted.  What ever brought a girl like you down in here?”

She smiled.

“I’m a feature writer; I’m doing a series on the West for Scribbler’s,” she told him.  “I visit New Mexico next, but I’m after something else besides a description of mountains and men; I’m also going to hunt up an old friend interested in mining, who told me if I ever got out this way I must look him up.

“I haven’t seen him for years.  He was continually singing this valley’s charms, and so here I am.  And I’m planning a great surprise on him.  And, of course, I’m literally drinking in atmosphere—­to say nothing of local colour, which seems mostly to be men and revolvers.”

The man opposite wet his lips with his tongue in an effort to speak, but the girl was busy eating and apparently paid no attention.  Her calm indifference convinced him that her words were entirely innocent, and his audacity returned.

“Well,” he ventured, “do you agree with this prospector friend?”

“The scenery, you mean?” glancing up brightly.  “Why, it is wonderful, of course, and I am not at all sorry having made the journey, although it hardly compares with Tennessee Pass or Silver Plume.  Still, you know, it will be pleasant to tell Mr. Cavendish when I go back that I was here.”

He choked and his face seemed to whiten suddenly.

“Mr. Cavendish?” he gasped.  “Of New York?  Not the one that was killed?”

It was her turn to stare across the table, her eyes wide with horror, which she simulated excellently.

“Killed!  Has a man by that name been killed lately in New York?  It was Frederick Cavendish I referred to.”  Her pretence was admirable.

He was silent, realising lie had already said too much; the red had come back into his cheeks, but his hand shook as it rested clenched on the table.