e
fault--yours--yours! Your shot at Spike so near the house lost you the
game--lost--lost! Your shot at Spike was a call for help--saved the life
of the man you came to kill! Your shot at Spike lost you the
game--lost--lost!"

So, followed by the pad-pad of running feet, haunted by the querulous
demon-voice, M'Ginnis stumbled out upon the road--a lonely road at most
times but quite desolate at this hour. The fugitive hastened along,
dogged by sounds that none but he might hear, yet to him these sounds
were dreadfully real, so real that once, goaded to a paroxysm of blind
fury, he whirled about and fired wildly--a shot that seemed to split
asunder the deep night silence, filling it with a thousand echoes. Once
more he turned and ran, ran until his breath laboured painfully and the
sweat ran from him, but ever the sounds were close about him.

At last he beheld lights that moved, and reaching a way-side halt,
clambered aboard a late trolley and crouched as far from the light as
possible. But even so, his disordered dress, his pallor, and the wild
glare of his eyes drew the idle glances of the few passengers.

"Looks like you'd been through th' mill, bo!" said one, a great, rough
fellow; but meeting M'Ginnis's answering glare, he quailed and shrank
away.

Dawn was at hand when at last he reached O'Rourke's saloon and, letting
himself in, strode into the bar. The place was deserted at this hour,
but from a room hard by came the sound of voices, hoarse laughter, and
the rattle of chips that told a poker game was still in progress.

Scowling, M'Ginnis stood awhile to listen. Then, lifting the flap of the
bar, he passed through the narrow door beyond, along the passage and so
to that dingy office, from the open door of which a light streamed.

Scowling still, M'Ginnis strode in, then stood suddenly still, lifted
his right hand toward his breast, then paused as Soapy, turning about in
the swing chair, took a heavy, ivory-handled revolver from where it had
lain on the desk beside a packet of letters tied up in a faded blue
ribbon.

"Lock th' door, Bud, lock th' door!" said he softly. "So!" he nodded,
as M'Ginnis obeyed. "'N' say, Bud, take that hand away from y'r gun
an'--keep it away--see?" And the lamplight glittered on the long barrel
that rested on Soapy's knee.

"So--this is th' game--hey?" demanded M'Ginnis hoarsely, his bloodshot
eyes fixed on Soapy unwinkingly.

"'S right, Bud. Y' see, I been takin' a peek int