broke--came West. . . . That's why. . . ."

With a forlorn sort of forced grin he gazed back at his interlocutor.
Yorke, unheeding the conversation, continued his breakfast as if he were
alone.

"H-mm!" grunted Slavin, summing up the situation with native simplicity,
"That's ut, eh?--but, for all ye have th' spache an' manners av a
ginthleman--ranker somehow--somehow I misdoubt ye're a way-back waster
like Misther Yorkey here!"

That hardened "ginthleman," absently sipping his coffee, flung a
faintly-derisive, patient smile at his accuser. A perfect understanding
seemed to exist between the two men. Redmond, musing upon the
pathetically-sordid drama he had witnessed not so many hours since,
relapsed into a reverie of speculation.

The silence was suddenly broken by the sharp trill of the telephone.
Slavin arose lethargically from the mess-table and answered it.

"Hullo! yis! Slavin shpeakin'! Fwat?--all right Nick! I'll sind a man
shortly an' vag um! So long! Oh, hold on, Nick! . . . May th' divil
niver know ye're dead till ye're tu hours in Hivin! Fwhat?--Oh, thank
yez! Same tu yez! Well! . . . so long!"

"Hobo worryin' Nick Lee at Cow Run. Scared av fire in th'
livery-shtable. Go yu', Yorkey!" He eyed George a moment in curious
speculation. "Yu' had betther go along tu, Ridmond! Exercise yez harse
an'"--he lit his pipe noisily--"learn th' lay av th' thrails." He turned
to the senior constable. "If ye can lay hould av th' J.P. there, get