"No, I'm not mad." Marley broke in passionately. "I know what I'm talking about. I know she'd die in one of them charity places. It's up to me. She treated me white—the only soul on God's earth that ever did. And maybe, maybe too, it'll help square accounts. You'll play fair and swear she gets the money, won't you?"
"I don't understand," said Carleton slowly; "but I'll swear to give her anything you have to give."
Marley nodded quickly.
"That's all I want," he said. "There ain't much to understand." He fumbled in his pocket and brought out a newspaper clipping, a column long, which he laid on the desk. "I guess you'll get it all there."
The heavy "set" of the heading leaped up at Carleton. "$5,000 REWARD." Below, halfway down the column, was the reproduction of a photograph—Marley's.
Regan was up from his chair, bending over the super's shoulder.
"I thought I'd seen you somewhere before"—Carleton's voice sounded strained and hollow in his own ears. "It must have been the picture. I remember now. You—you killed a man in Denver a year ago."
"It's all there," said Marley, licking his lips again. "I never saw him before. I killed him like I almost killed Boileau this summer. I didn't know till afterward that he was rich, not until the family hung out that reward."
Carleton did not speak. Regan reached viciously for his plug. Marley stirred uneasily, and drew the
