back of his hand across his forehead. It came away soggy wet. In the silence the chime of the Limited's whistle floated in through the open window, then, presently, the roar of the train and the grinding shriek of the brake-shoes.
"My God," said Carleton in a whisper, "you want me to give you up and get the reward—for her!"
A queer smile flickered across Marley's face. Heavy steps came running up the stairs. There was a smart rap upon the door and a man stepped quickly inside. For a second his eyes swept the little group. Then he whirled like a flash, and the blue-black muzzle of a revolver held a bead on Marley's heart.
"Ah, Shorty," he cried grimly, "we've got you at last, eh? Put out your hands!"
Without protest, with the same queer smile on his face, Marley obeyed. There was a little click of steel, and he dropped his locked wrists before him.
"You're Mr. Carleton, aren't you?" the newcomer had swung to the desk.
"Yes," said Carleton numbly.
"I'm Hepburn of the Denver police," went on the officer. "We appreciate this, Mr. Carleton. Shorty here has been badly wanted for a long time. We got your letter yesterday."
Hepburn paused to reach into his pocket, and in the pause Carleton's eyes met Marley's—and he understood. Marley had written the letter himself and signed his, Carleton's, name. And, too, it was clear enough now, the telegram he had puzzled over the previous afternoon. It was lying before him on his desk.
