every man had to draw the line. And
every man should draw it before the state of his soul did such things
to lips and eyes. Therefore, and because of the other's condescending
largeness, his reply was cold.

"I'd better," he said, without thanks. "When a man goes into a
doubtful business he'd ought at least to dress respectable. He owes it
to himself to look his best."

The level dislike in the other's tone disconcerted the huge man not at
all. He was wise enough to drop it there. But it set him thinking as
he retraced his way to the private car.

The fox-faced man and the reporter who was monosyllabic were waiting
for his return.

"How much?" This from Fox-face, avidly. He had seen money change
hands.

"Two hundred. He was stony!"

"He did look hungry." This from the reporter, ruminatingly.

"I sent him on to Larrabie."

"Bet you a hundred that Larrabie never sees him!"

"I'll take that," said the reporter.

But Fox-face, perceiving better ones, changed the terms of his
proffered wager.

"Bet you a hundred you never hear from him, even if he does meet
Condit." He hurled this at the huge man, disdaining the reporter.
"Bet you you've not heard from him in three years--in five!"

"There's too many sure things in this world," opined the huge man, calm
under Fox-face's challenge with something like contempt, "to bother
with a gamble." He squinted a moment in thought.

"But when we pull into Shell you'd better wire Larrabie to be discreet.
If he wants to know who D. is, better advise Larrabie to call me
'Denver'--'Denver' Smith will do. Just a disinterested party."

And at that Fox-face was instantly, visibly consumed with curiosity.
The reporter looked almost as though he understood.

"He might not approve of me," he chose to be downright, and enlighten
Fox-face at the same time. "He doesn't now, as it is." And then he
laughed softly, as if at himself.

"It's funny, too. I suppose he's like all of them, drunk every pay-day
while his money holds out, and a familiar face at every brothel. And
yet from the way he looked at me--" He shook his head, not in anger
but amiable meditation. "It's funny," he repeated, and let it go at
that.

So it remained a conundrum to Fox-face. The reporter, however, was now
sure that he had understood. He was sorry that he had not gone out to
speak to Blue Jeans himself. And now the fat man was speaking again.

"He'll go to Estabrook, and he'll earn hi