She was dressed just as she had always been in the long years Gibbs had known her, soberly and in taste; she wore a dark tailor suit, the jacket of which disclosed at her full bosom a fresh white waist. She was gloved and carried a small hand-bag; the bow of black ribbon on her hat trembled with her agitation; she was not tall, but she was heavy, with the tendency to the corpulence of middle years. Her reddish hair was touched with gray here and there, and, as Gibbs looked at her, he could see in her flushed face traces of the beauty that had been the fatal fortune of the girlhood of Jane the Gun. "Howdy, Dan," she said, holding out her gloved hand. "Hello, Jane," he said. "When’d you come?" "I got in last night," she said, laying her hand-bag on the table. "Give me a little whisky, Dan." She tugged at her gloves, which came from her moist hands reluctantly. Gibbs was looking at her hands,--they were as white, as soft and as beautiful as they had ever been. One thing in the world, he reflected in the saddened philosophy that had come to him with sobriety, had held unchanged, anyway. "I said a little whisky, Dan!" she spoke with some of her old imperiousness. "No," he said resolutely, "you don’t need any. There’s nothing in it." He was speaking out of his moral rehabilitation. She glanced at him angrily; he saw that her brown eyes, the brown eyes that went with her reddish hair and her warm complexion, were flaming and almost red. He remembered to have seen them flame that dangerous red before. Still, it would be best to mollify her. "There ain’t any more whisky in town," he said, "I’ve drunk it all up." She laughed as the second glove came off with a final jerk. "I heard you’d been hitting the pots. Isn’t it a shame! The poor kid! I heard it’s a kangaroo." Gibbs made no comment. "He was a raw one, too, wasn’t he?" "Well, he’s a young Dutchman--he filled in with the mob several moons back." "What was the rap?" "He boosted a rod, and they settled him for that; he got a stretch. Then he was in when they knocked off the peter in that P. O. down in Indiana." "That’s what I couldn’t get hip to; Mason wasn’t--" "No, not that time; they had him wrong; but you know what them elbows are." "They must have rapped hard." "Yes, they gave them a five spot. But the Dutch wasn’t in on that Flanagan job, neither was Curly. That was rough work--the cat, I s’pose." Jane, her chin in her hands, suddenly became intent, looking straight into Gibbs’s eyes. "Dan, that’s what I want to get wise to." Her cheeks flamed to her white temples, her breast rose tumultuously, and as she looked at Gibbs her eyes contracted, the wrinkles about them became deeper and older, and they wore the hard ugly look of jealous suspicion. But presently her lip quivered, then slowly along the lower lashes of her eyes the tears gathered. "What’s the matter, Jane?"