in six months. If you want him killed so bad, do it yourself."
This was a thought indeed. On the other hand, another murder might not be necessary. Months would pass before the road would be opened, and in the meantime Cranston could have a thousand chances to steal back the accusing letters. Perhaps they would be guarded closely at first, but by the late winter months they would be an old story, and a single raid on the house might turn the trick. He did n't believe for an instant that the man Gibbs had seen a detective. He had kept too close watch over the roads for that.
"A tall chap, in outing clothes—dark-haired and clean-shaven?"
"Yes?"
"Wears a tan hat?"
"That's the man."
"I know him—and I wish you'd punctured him. Why, you could 've taken those papers away from him and slapped his face, and he would n't have put up his arms. And now he 'll hide 'em somewhere—afraid to carry 'em for fear he meets me. That's Failing—the tenderfoot that's been staying at Lennox's. He's a lunger."
"He did n't look like no lunger to me."
"But no matter about that—it's just as I
