“’Hold up!  Your dope sheet is way to the bad.  There’s something wrong with your libretto.  Who told you all that?’

“’Never mind.  I have proof.  Look at these, and you dare to ask me why I left him?’

“She dragged out some pictures and throwed ’em at me.

“‘Ah!  Why didn’t I let the kid kill him?’ says I, through my teeth.

“The first was the gambling-room of the Reception.  There stood Morrow with the men under foot; there was the bottles and glasses; the chips and cards, and also the distressful spectacle of Tarantula Bill Joyce, a number twelve man, all gleaming teeth, and rolling eyeballs, inserting hisself into a number nine opening, and doing surprising well at it.

“‘Look at them.  Look at them well,’ she gibed.

“The second was the Gold-Belt dance-hall, with the kid cavorting through a drunken orgy of painted ladies, like a bull in a pansy patch.  But the other—­it took my breath away till I felt I was on smooth ice, with cracks showing.  It was the inside of a cabin, after a big ‘pot-latch,’ displaying a table littered up with fizz bottles and dishes galore.  Diamond Tooth Lou stood on a chair, waving kisses and spilling booze from a mug.  In the centre stood Morrow with another girl, nestling agin his boosum most horrible lovin’.  Gee!  It was a home splitter and it left me sparring for wind.  The whole thing exhaled an air of debauchery that would make a wooden Indian blush.  No one thing in particular; just the general local colour of a thousand-dollar bender.

“‘Charming, isn’t it?’ she sneered.

“’I don’t savvy the burro.  There’s something phony about it.  I can explain the other two, but this one—.’  Then it come to me in a flash.  The man’s face was perfect, but he wore knickerbockers!  Now, to my personal knowledge, the only being that ever invaded Rampart City in them things was R. Alonzo Struthers.

“‘There’s secrets of the dark-room that I ain’t wise to,’ says I, ’but I feel that this is going to be a bad night for the newspaper enterprise of ’Frisco if it don’t explain.  I’ll fetch the man that busted your Larrys and Peanuts.’

“‘Our what?’ says she.

“’Larrys and Peanuts—­that’s Roman.  The kid told me all about ’em.  They’re sort of little cheap gods!’

“‘Will you ever go?’ she snapped.  ’I don’t need your help.  Tell him I hate him!’ She stamped her foot, and the iron come into her again till the pride of all Kentucky blazed in her eyes.

“She couldn’t understand my explanations no more than I could, so I ducked.  As I backed out the door, though, I seen her crumple up and settle all of a heap on the floor.  She certainly did hate that man scandalous.

“I’m glad some editors work nights.  Struthers wasn’t overjoyed at my call, particular, as I strayed in with two janitors dangling from me.  They said he was busy and couldn’t be interrupted, and they seemed to insist on it.’