The arms of Cartwright became frozen in their position above his head.  He turned slowly, with little jerky movements, as though he had to fight to make himself look.  And then he saw Sinclair.

“Keep ’em up!” commanded the cowpuncher, “and get out of that chair, real soft and slow.  That’s it!”

Without a word Cartwright obeyed.  There was no need of speech, indeed, for a score of expressions flashed into his face.

“Go over and lock the door.”

He obeyed, keeping his arms above his head, all the way across the room, while Sinclair jerked the new Colt out of its holster and tossed it on the farthest bed.  In the meantime Cartwright lingered at the door for a moment with his hand on the key.  No doubt he fought, for the split part of a second, with a wild temptation to jerk that door open and leap into the safety of the hall.  Sinclair read that thought in the tremor of the big man’s body.  But presently discretion prevailed.  Cartwright turned the key and faced about.  He was a deadly gray, and his lips were working.

“Now,” he began.

“Wait till I start talking,” urged Sinclair.  “Come over here and sit down.  You’re too close to the door to suit me, just now.  This is a pile better.”

Cartwright obeyed quietly.  Sitting down, he locked his hands nervously about one knee and looked up with his eyes to Sinclair.

“I come in for a quiet talk,” said Sinclair, dropping his gun into the holster.

That movement drew a sudden brightening of the eyes of Cartwright, who now straightened in his chair, as if he had regained hope.

“Don’t make no mistake,” said Sinclair, following the meaning of that change accurately.  “I’m pretty handy with this old gun, partner.  And on you, just now, they ain’t any reason why I should take my time or any chances, when it comes to shooting.”

Unconsciously Cartwright moistened his white lips, and his eyes grew big again.

“Except that the minute you shoot, you’re a dead one, Sinclair.”

“Me?  Oh, no.  When a gun’s heard they’ll run to the room where the shot’s been fired.  And when they get the lock open, I’ll be gone the way I come from.”  Sinclair smiled genially on his enemy.  “Don’t start raising any crop of delusions, friend.  I mean business—­a lot.”

“Then talk business.  I’ll listen.”

“Oh, thanks!  I come here about your wife.”

He watched Cartwright wince.  In his heart he pitied the man.  All the story of Cartwright’s spoiled boyhood and viciously selfish youth were written in his face for the reading of such a man as Sinclair.  The rancher’s son had begun well enough.  Lack of discipline had undone him; but whether his faults were fixed or changeable, Sinclair could not tell.  It was largely to learn this that he took the chances for the interview.

“Go on,” said Cartwright.

“In the first place, d’you know why she left you?”