“I would,” said Carver, “only my delivery boy, the shiftless little wart, is out somewhere spinning his top. Here’s the key to my shack. You saunter past and collect it.” Carver headed for Lassiter’s room. The door stood ajar and as he entered he observed a stooping figure whose hand was busily exploring the drawer of the dresser. “We won’t need that twenty,” Carver said. “Let her ride where she is.” The figure straightened and whirled to face him in the dim light. It was Noll Lassiter, not Bart. “Where’s Bart?” Carver asked. “Haven’t seen him,” Noll returned. “Then where’s Bart’s twenty dollars?” Carver inquired. “I mistrust that you’ve got it--and I want it. S’pose you hand it over.” “Make it out of here!” Noll ordered. “This is my room and I don’t want you in it.” “Someway you haven’t inspired me with any ardent fancy,” Carver stated. “Right at present the feeling is mild, but it will grow acute if you keep exploring in that drawer for Bart’s last twenty.” Lassiter made a swift move behind him but his arms fell back at his sides as Carver’s gun was jammed suddenly against his floating ribs. “Tut, tut,” Carver admonished. “You’re way too awkward for that sort of thing. Sometime you’ll do that and some excitable soul will shoot you three or four times while you’re starting your wind-up.” He removed Noll’s weapon and tossed both it and his own upon the bed. “Now we can converse at our ease until Bart comes,” he said. But Lassiter, angered beyond precaution, jumped for him the instant he relinquished the weapons, and being heavier than Carver he sought to bear him down by sheer weight. Carver rocked his head with two solid smashes but Noll sought only to come to grips where he could exert his strength, clutching at his opponent instead of returning his blows. They fought in cramped quarters and Carver could not step to either side lest he should give Lassiter access to the two guns reposing on the bed. The huge paws clamped on his shoulders and Lassiter crushed him back against the dresser. Carver elevated one knee between them, planted his boot against the other’s paunch and propelled him violently doorward. With a single step he retrieved his gun with intent to discourage Lassiter’s return, but he had no need of it. The big man’s head collided forcibly with the door jamb and he sprawled in a limp heap just outside in the narrow corridor. Bart Lassiter, just mounting the stairway, witnessed this strange exit of his relative. He peered inside and discovered Carver, so he entered and seated himself on the edge of the bed, twisting a cigarette while he sought to reconcile the evidence before his eyes with the mental picture of the empty room as he had left it not five minutes past. “Incidentally, there seems to be a corpse on the threshold,” he presently observed. “What did it die of?”