“I do not choose,” said Jeff steadily, “that my wife shall suffer needless anxiety--unneeded if you set me free at last. Still less do I choose, if I meet with foul play at your hands, or if I should be killed attempting an escape, to have her haunted by any doubt of me. I shall write to her that I am in Old Mexico, in some part known to be dangerous, tempted by high pay. You will send it to be mailed down there. Then, if I do not come back, she will think of me as honorably dead, and be at peace.” It came into the Judge’s active mind that such a letter--dated and signed from some far-off Mexican town--might, in some contingencies, be useful to him; his bold, blue eyes, which had faced an imminent death firmly enough, dropped now to hide the treacherous thought. And upon this thought, and its influence upon sending the letter, Jeff had counted from the first. “There are other reasons,” said Jeff. “You have been pleased to speak well of me. You have boasted, both for yourself and for me, enough and more than enough. Let me now boast for myself. Has it never occurred to you that such a man as I am would have friends--formidable friends? That they are wondering what has become of me? If you agree to my arrangement, I have a chance of saving both my life and some shreds of decency. I do not now want my friends to come in search of me and get me killed in trying to rescue me--for you will, of course, redouble your precautions after this. This letter will put my friends at ease. I will have to trust you to mail it. That is the weakness of my position. But I will think that there is a chance that you will mail it--and that chance will help me to keep a quiet mind. That much, at least, will be a clear gain. Do this, and I will yield a point to you. If you would rather I didn’t, I will not go to see you hanged!” The amazing effrontery of this last coaxing touch so appealed to Judge Thorpe’s sense of humor that he quite recovered his good nature. “My dear boy,” he said, “if I should ever be hanged, I wouldn’t miss having you there for worlds. It would add a zest to the occasion that I should grieve to lose. I will agree unconditionally to your proposed _modus vivendi_. As I understand it, if I can hang Tillotson you are to keep silence and go free. But if you can contrive to get me hanged you are to attend the festivity in person? It is a wager. Write your letter and I’ll mail it. Of course, I’ll have to read it and edit it if needed. And say--Bransford! I’ll mail it, too! You can be at rest on that point. In the meantime, I presume, I may move without bringing the typewriter about my ears?” “You may,” said Jeff. “It’s a bet. I wish you’d wait and I’ll write the letter now. She’ll be anxious about me. It’ll take some time. I always write her long letters. Let me have your fountain-pen, will you?” “Why don’t you use your typewriter?” said the Judge. “And, by the way, I fear we shall have to deprive you of your typewriter in the future.”