"Go on," Sims said weakly. "There 's—there 's nothing in the story—for a newspaper. What do you want?"
Colburn drew from his inside pocket a bundle of old letters, forgotten memoranda, and such clutter of a reporter's work. "I don't suppose there is," he said, looking for his "annual." "But when a man 's sent out on a story, he has to come back with something. Personally, I don't care a cuss about the thing."
Sims watched him, in silence a moment. Then he asked in another voice: "Will you promise not to tell him which way I went—which train I took?"
"I sure will."
He sank back against the cushions. "What do you want to know?"
"Who was the woman?"
The car had begun to glide out of the station noiselessly. Sims let his chin sink upon his collar again. "Can't you leave her out of it?"
"Yes—but he won't."
"He don't care."
"No. Not that way. Was she his wife?"
"I guess. He brought her out from Chicago—when I wrote to him about the claim. I wanted him to help me work it. He treated her like a dog."
"They generally do—that sort," Colburn commented. "She was about half his size, I suppose."
"She was n't any more than a kid."
"Sure thing. The life was pretty rough on her, was n't it?"
