“No,” said Corbin moodily. “What was the good? I know'd she'd got the letter,--and she did,--for that is what she wrote back.” He laid another letter before the Colonel, who hastily read a few lines and then brought his fat white hand violently on the desk. “Why, d--n it all, sir, this is BLACKMAIL! As infamous a case of threatening and chantage as I ever heard of.” “Well,” said Corbin, dejectedly, “I don't know. You see she allows that I murdered Frisbee to get hold of his claim, and that I'm trying to buy her off, and that if I don't come down with twenty thousand dollars on the nail, and notes for the rest, she'll prosecute me. Well, mebbe the thing looks to her like that--mebbe you know I've got to shoulder that too. Perhaps it's all in the same line.” Colonel Starbottle for a moment regarded Corbin critically. In spite of his chivalrous attitude towards the homicidal faculty, the Colonel was not optimistic in regard to the baser pecuniary interests of his fellow-man. It was quite on the cards that his companion might have murdered his partner to get possession of the claim. It was true that Corbin had voluntarily assumed an unrecorded and hitherto unknown responsibility that had never been even suspected, and was virtually self-imposed. But that might have been the usual one unerring blunder of criminal sagacity and forethought. It was equally true that he did not look or act like a mean murderer; but that was nothing. However, there was no evidence of these reflections in the Colonel's face. Rather he suddenly beamed with an excess of politeness. “Would you--er--mind, Mr. Corbin, whilst I am going over those letters again, to--er--step across to my office--and--er--bring me the copy of 'Wood's Digest' that lies on my table? It will save some time.” The stranger rose, as if the service was part of his self-imposed trouble, and as equally hopeless with the rest, and taking his hat departed to execute the commission. As soon as he had left the building Colonel Starbottle opened the door and mysteriously beckoned the bar-keeper within. “Do you remember anything of the killing of a man named Frisbee over in Fresno three years ago?” The bar-keeper whistled meditatively. “Three years ago--Frisbee?--Fresno?--no? Yes--but that was only one of his names. He was Jack Walker over here. Yes--and by Jove! that feller that was here with you killed him. Darn my skin, but I thought I recognized him.” “Yes, yes, I know all that,” said the Colonel, impatiently. “But did Frisbee have any PROPERTY? Did he have any means of his own?”