The words rattled against Ken's ears emptily.
"But why me? There's others."
"Ken, I want you to enjoy this trip. Tonight, in El Paso, we shall talk."
"This is Henry Fraser, Ken," Mr. Lowell said. Henry Fraser, seated astride a gilt chair in the El Paso Hotel suite, puffed on a long Mexican cigarette and regarded Ken with dull eyes.
"Pleased to meetcha," he replied. "It's been awfully boring," he turned to Mr. Lowell. "I told Fran I didn't want to go to a dude ranch alone."
Henry Fraser seemed like a sissy, Ken concluded. His clothes were too well tailored, his waist too wasp-like, his affected speech and tiny moustache ridiculous.
"Fran has been too commanding," he continued. "Too damned imperial, if you get what I mean. I always preferred you, La—"
"I want to show you the view from the bedroom window," said Mr. Lowell suddenly. "Ken will excuse us."
"I didn't know. I really didn't know," said Henry Fraser, with curious emphasis. "I don't care for views. Though your taste is improving. I'll tell Fran not to worry about me."
"Is Fran your wife?" Ken interrupted.
"Quite," said Henry Fraser. And that ended the conversation.
Ken thought Mr. Lowell's suite was lavish. He had stopped at the Jefferson in St. Louis on the basket-ball team's northern jaunt last winter; but the Jefferson was a dog-house compared to this. These elegant rooms, the heavy carpets, the green and gold wainscoting, the respectful
