simply thought you might want to put yourself right."
Sims made no answer. Wrapped in his heavy overcoat, muffled up to the eyes, he sank back in the darkness of the cab, feebly obdurate. Colburn sat forward on the edge of the cushions to roll another cigarette by the light of the passing street-lamps. It was one of those chill Colorado nights that come down to Denver from the mountains when the sun has set, but Colburn was used to them; he did not even wear gloves. "Ever play loose deuces?" he asked. He added, in a moment: "You 'll be in time for the seven-forty-five."
"You go to—," Sims said. "You can't draw me. I 've had this game worked on me before."
Colburn sat back to reconsider his play. It was evident that Sims knew his hand, and he did not know Sims's. At such moments you would swear that there was a film drawn over his eyes.
III
"Well," Colburn said as he put Sims's suit-case on the seat of the Pullman, "I don't want to go back to the office with half the story. I know your name 's Bell, and he says you shot the woman and ran off with the clean-up. What I don't understand is why you did it."
Sims sat down, without answering, and looked out the window at the station lights, waiting for the train to start. Colburn promptly sat down beside him and stretched out his legs as if he intended to stay. Sims glanced around at him pathetically. "I did n't shoot
