Before him, seated at the far side of a flat-topped, walnut desk of ancient vintage sat a tall, lean, white-haired man of indeterminate age, who leaned slightly forward and whose hands were not in sight.
"Sit down," said Kane, in a voice of singular sweetness and penetrating timbre. For several minutes he looked at his visitor as a buyer might look at a horse, silent, thoughtful, his deeply-lined face devoid of any change in its austere expression.
"Why did you come here?" he suddenly snapped.
"To get out of th' storm," answered Bill.
"Why else?"
Bill looked around, up at the graven Thorpe and back again at his inquisitor, and shrugged his shoulders. "Mebby you can tell me," he answered before he remembered to be less independent.
"I think I can. Anyone who plays poker as well as you do has a very good reason for visiting strange towns. What is your name?"
"Bill Long."
"I know that. I asked, what is your name?"
Bill looked around again and then sat up stiffly. "That ain't interestin' us."
"Where are you from?"
Bill shrugged his shoulders and remained silent.
"You are not very talkative today. How did you get that Highbank horse?"
Bill acted a little surprised and anxious. "I—I don't know," he answered foolishly.
"Very well. When you make up your mind to answer my questions I have a proposition to offer you which you
