“Dead, for all I know,” he responded, with a cheerfulness which came from his comfortable environment rather than from any particular pleasure from the possible demise of the gentleman in question.  “He moved away from Denver later, and I haven’t heard of him since.”

Levy was absorbed in his own thoughts for several moments, which time was profitably employed by Buckner again to replenish his glass, and to help himself to a fresh cigar.

“Look here, Buckner.”  Levy spoke so suddenly that his companion guiltily replaced the unlighted cigar in the box.  “How difficult would it be for you to forget that you ever had a summons served on you, provided there was enough in it to make it worth while?”

Buckner boldly placed the cigar between his lips and straightened up.

“What’s the game?” he asked.  “Tell me what’s up, and perhaps we can make a trade.”

“I have a client who might like to see that divorce decree set aside,” Levy began.

“Another friend of mine, eh?” Buckner laughed at his own joke.  “Never knew before I was so popular.”  The brandy was getting in its work.  “Every one is interested in my marriage troubles, and here’s one wants to give me back my wife!”

“Never mind that,” Levy stopped him.  “This client of mine isn’t interested in you or in your wife, but he evidently has a private spite against Gorham, who married her.  He may not care to push it, but, if he does, do you see what the game is?”

“Sure I do, sure I do,” Buckner answered, thickly.  “Damned good game—­I’ll play it with you.  It would hit her hard, too, wouldn’t it?”

“What do you care if it does?”

“I don’t care—­glad of it—­that’s the special reason why I’m willing to play the game.”

“All right; we’ll get down to business.  I’m going to draw up an affidavit that, as far as the divorce proceedings are concerned, you never retained any lawyer, and never were served with a summons, either in Colorado Springs or anywhere else; that you never knew of the pending of the action, nor that this suit was to be brought to trial.  And you are to swear to this, do you understand?”

Buckner whistled suggestively.  “What’s the financial proposition?”

“Five thousand dollars if I use it; five hundred if I don’t.”

“Suppose Jennings turns up with those letters.  There’s a penalty for that, isn’t there?”

“We’ll take good care that Jennings doesn’t turn up,” Levy assured him, “and we would be taking all the risk.”

It was Buckner’s turn to become absorbed, and this time it was Levy who refilled his glass.

“It would be a lot of money,” he muttered to himself, as he nervously gulped the brandy down, “and it would hit her hard.  Go ahead, Levy.  Draw up your damned paper and I’ll sign it.  Never knew I was so popular, anyhow.”

Levy left him for a few moments while he dictated the affidavit, returning to his private office while the stenographer was writing out her notes.