“On the level Eddie, I know your maw,” persisted Billy.  “I ben in your maw’s house jest a few weeks ago.  ’Member the horsehair sofa between the windows?  ’Member the Bible on the little marble-topped table?  Eh?  An’ Tige?  Well, Tige’s croaked; but your maw an’ your paw ain’t an’ they want you back, Eddie.  I don’t care ef you believe me, son, or not; but your maw was mighty good to me, an’ you promise me you’ll write her an’ then go back home as fast as you can.  It ain’t everybody’s got a swell maw like that, an’ them as has ought to be good to ’em.”

Beyond the closed door Eddie’s jaw was commencing to tremble.  Memory was flooding his heart and his eyes with sweet recollections of an ample breast where he used to pillow his head, of a big capable hand that was wont to smooth his brow and stroke back his red hair.  Eddie gulped.

“You ain’t joshin’ me?” he asked.  Billy Byrne caught the tremor in the voice.

“I ain’t kiddin’ you son,” he said.  “Wotinell do you take me fer—­one o’ these greasy Dagos?  You an’ I’re Americans—­ I wouldn’t string a home guy down here in this here Godforsaken neck o’ the woods.”

Billy heard the lock turn, and a moment later the door was cautiously opened revealing Eddie safely ensconced behind two six-shooters.

“That’s right, Eddie,” said Billy, with a laugh.  “Don’t you take no chances, no matter how much sob stuff I hand you, fer, I’ll give it to you straight, ef I get the chanct I’ll make my get-away; but I can’t do it wit my flippers trussed, an’ you wit a brace of gats sittin’ on me.  Let’s have a light, Eddie.  That won’t do nobody any harm, an’ it may discourage the rats.”

Eddie backed across the office to a table where stood a small lamp.  Keeping an eye through the door on his prisoner he lighted the lamp and carried it into the back room, setting it upon a commode which stood in one corner.

“You really seen maw?” he asked.  “Is she well?”

“Looked well when I seen her,” said Billy; “but she wants her boy back a whole lot.  I guess she’d look better still ef he walked in on her some day.”

“I’ll do it,” cried Eddie.  “The minute they get money for the pay I’ll hike.  Tell me your name.  I’ll ask her ef she remembers you when I get home.  Gee! but I wish I was walkin’ in the front door now.”

“She never knew my name,” said Billy; “but you tell her you seen the bo that mussed up the two yeggmen who rolled her an’ were tryin’ to croak her wit a butcher knife.  I guess she ain’t fergot.  Me an’ my pal were beatin’ it—­he was on the square but the dicks was after me an’ she let us have money to make our get-away.  She’s all right, kid.”

There came a knock at the outer office door.  Eddie sprang back into the front room, closing and locking the door after him, just as Barbara entered.

“Eddie,” she asked, “may I see the prisoner?  I want to talk to him.”