n't entertain her you would. But it was the truth; you
told me the truth, and it was better that you told it--as it is better
now that I tell it to you."

"I was drunk. I didn't tell you the truth. A man is a pretty tough
animal sometimes, but you are a woman and a pure one, and I care more
for you than for all the other women in the world, and it is not your
nature to be unforgiving."

"It is to be honest."

He looked suddenly up at her and spoke sharply: "Marion, I know why
you won't go."

"I have honestly told you."

"No; you have not honestly told me. The real reason is Gordon Smith."

"If he were I should not hesitate to tell you, Murray, but he is not,"
she said coldly.

Sinclair spoke harshly: "Do you think you can fool me? Don't you
suppose I know he spends his time loafing around your shop?"

Marion flushed indignantly. "It is not true!"

"Don't you suppose I know he writes letters back to Wisconsin to your
folks?"

"What have I to do with that? Why shouldn't he write to my mother? Who
has a better right?"

"Don't drive me too far. By God! if I go away alone I'll never leave
you here to run off with Whispering Smith--remember that!" She sat in
silence. His rage left her perfectly quiet, and her unmoved expression
shamed and in part silenced him. "Don't drive me too far," he muttered
sullenly. "If you do you will be responsible, Marion."

She did not move her eyes from the blue hills on the horizon. "I
expect you to kill me sometime; I feel sure you will. And that you may
do." Then she bent her look on him. "You may do it now if you want
to."

His face turned heavy with rage. "Marion," he cried, with an oath, "do
you know how close you are to death at this moment?"

"You may do it now."

He clinched the bench-rail and rose slowly to his feet. Marion sat
motionless in the hickory chair; the sun was shining in her face and
her hands were folded in her lap. Dicksie rocked on the porch. In the
shadow of the house the man was mending the saddle.

CHAPTER XXVI

TOWER W

At the end of a long and neglected hall on the second floor of the old
bank block in Hill Street, Whispering Smith had a room in which he
made headquarters at Medicine Bend; it was in effect Whispering
Smith's home. A man's room is usually a forlorn affair in spite of any
effort to make it home-like. If he neglects his room it looks barren,
and if he ornaments it it looks fussy. Boys can do something with a
den because