“Marley,” he said soothingly, “you’re not yourself, you----” “No, I’m not mad,” Marley broke in passionately. “I know what I’m talking about. I know she’d die in one of them charity places. It’s up to me. She treated me white--the only soul on God’s earth that ever did. And maybe, maybe too, it’ll help square accounts. You’ll play fair and swear she gets the money, won’t you?” “I don’t understand,” said Carleton slowly; “but I’ll swear to give her anything you have to give.” Marley nodded quickly. “That’s all I want,” he said. “There ain’t much to understand.” He fumbled in his pocket and brought out a newspaper clipping, a column long, which he laid on the desk. “I guess you’ll get it all there.” The heavy “set” of the heading leaped up at Carleton. “$5,000 REWARD.” Below, halfway down the column, was the reproduction of a photograph--Marley’s. Regan was up from his chair, bending over the super’s shoulder. “I thought I’d seen you somewhere before”--Carle-ton’s voice sounded strained and hollow in his own ears. “It must have been the picture. I remember now. You--you killed a man in Denver a year ago.” “It’s all there,” said Marley, licking his lips again. “I never saw him before. I killed him like I almost killed Boileau this summer. I didn’t know till afterward that he was rich, not until the family hung out that reward.” Carleton did not speak. Regan reached viciously for his plug. Marley stirred uneasily, and drew the back of his hand across his forehead. It came away soggy wet. In the silence the chime of the Limited’s whistle floated in through the open window, then, presently, the roar of the train and the grinding shriek of the brake-shoes. “My God,” said Carleton in a whisper, “you want me to give you up and get the reward--for her!” A queer smile flickered across Marley’s face. Heavy steps came running up the stairs. There was a smart rap upon the door and a man stepped quickly inside. For a second his eyes swept the little group. Then he whirled like a flash, and the blue-black muzzle of a revolver held a bead on Marley’s heart. “Ah, Shorty,” he cried grimly, “we’ve got you at last, eh? Put out your hands!” Without protest, with the same queer smile on his face, Marley obeyed. There was a little click of steel, and he dropped his locked wrists before him. “You’re Mr. Carleton, aren’t you?”--the newcomer had swung to the desk. “Yes,” said Carleton numbly. “I’m Hepburn of the Denver police,” went on the officer. “We appreciate this, Mr. Carleton. Shorty here has been badly wanted for a long time. We got your letter yesterday.” Hepburn paused to reach into his pocket, and in the pause Carleton’s eyes met Marley’s--and he understood. Marley had written the letter himself and signed his, Carleton’s, name. And, too, it was clear enough now, the telegram he had puzzled over the previous afternoon. It was lying before him on his desk. His eyes dropped to it. “Will be on hand on arrival of Limited, (signed) Denver.”