casually placed behind the door. Presently he heard the sound of voices
and a heavy footstep in the passage. He lightly felt his waistcoat
pocket--it contained a pretty little weapon of power and precision, with
a barrel scarcely two inches long.

The door opened, and the person outside entered the room. In an instant
Brooks had shut the door and locked it behind him. The man turned
fiercely, but was faced by Brooks quietly, with one finger calmly hooked
in his waistcoat pocket. The man slightly recoiled from him--not as much
from fear as from some vague stupefaction. "What's that for? What's your
little game?" he said half contemptuously.

"No game at all," returned Brooks coolly. "You came here to sell a
secret. I don't propose to have it given away first to any listener."

"YOU don't--who are YOU?"

"That's a queer question to ask of the man you are trying to
personate--but I don't wonder! You're doing it d----d badly."

"Personate--YOU?" said the stranger, with staring eyes.

"Yes, ME," said Brooks quietly. "I am the only man who escaped from the
robbery that night at Heavy Tree Hill and who went home by the Overland
Coach."

The stranger stared, but recovered himself with a coarse laugh. "Oh,
well! we're on the same lay, it appears! Both after the widow--afore we
show up her husband."