partly furnished; back of this was a
kitchen, and beyond the kitchen a woodshed. Returning to the front of
the house, they mounted to the floor above. Here had been the old
merchant's bedroom; adjoining it were two smaller rooms, one of which
had been used as a place of storage for trunks and boxes and broken bits
of furniture; the other room was empty.

"We may as well go back down-stairs," said the gambler, halting, lamp
in hand, in the center of the empty room.

Harbison nodded, and leading the way to the floor below, they rejoined
the colonel in the sitting-room, where they made themselves as
comfortable as possible.

The colonel and his nephew talked in subdued tones, principally of the
murdered man; they had no desire to exclude their companion from the
conversation, but Gilmore displayed no interest in what was said. He sat
at the colonel's elbow, preoccupied and thoughtful, smoking cigar after
cigar. Presently the colonel and his nephew lapsed into silence. Their
silence seemed to rouse Gilmore to what was passing about him. He
glanced at the elder Harbison.

"You look tired, Colonel," he said. "Why don't you stretch out on that
lounge yonder and take a nap?"

"I think I shall, Andy, if you and Watt don't mind." And the colonel
quitted his chair.

"Better put your coat over you," advised the gambler.

He watched the colonel as he made himself comfortable on the lounge,
then he lighted a fresh cigar, tilted his chair against the wall and
with head thrown back studied the ceiling. Watt Harbison made one or two
tentative attempts at conversation, to which Gilmore briefly responded,
then the young fellow also became thoughtful. He fell to watching the
gambler's strong profile which the lamp silhouetted against the opposite
wall; then drowsiness completely overcame him and he slept in his chair
with his head fallen forward on his breast.

Gilmore, alert and sleepless, smoked on; he was thinking of Evelyn
Langham. After his interview with her husband that afternoon he had gone
to his own apartment. His bedroom adjoined North's parlor and through
the flimsy lath and plaster partition he had distinctly heard a woman's
voice. The sound of that voice and the suspicion it instantly begot
added to his furious hatred of North, for he had long suspected that
something more than friendship existed between Marshall Langham's wife
and Marshall Langham's friend.

"Damn him!" thought the gambler. "I'll fix him yet!" An