A silence fell on the company. One of the documents passing under Bucks's hand caught his eye and he opened it. It was the warrant for Sinclair. He read it without comment, folded it, and, looking at Whispering Smith, pushed it toward him. "Then this, I guess, Gordon, belongs to you." Starting from a revery, Whispering Smith reached for the warrant. He looked for a moment at the blood-stained caption. "Yes," he said, "this, I guess, belongs to me." CHAPTER XXXVI DUTY The stir of the town over the shooting of Banks seemed to Marion, in her distress, to point an accusing finger at her. The disgrace of what she had felt herself powerless to prevent now weighed on her mind, and she asked herself whether, after all, the responsibility of this murder was not upon her. Even putting aside this painful doubt, she bore the name of the man who had savagely defied accountability and now, it seemed to her, was dragging her with him through the slough of blood and dishonor into which he had plunged. The wretched thought would return that had she listened to him, had she consented to go away, this outbreak might have been prevented. And what horror might not another day bring--what lives still closer to her life be taken? For herself she cared less; but she knew that Sinclair, now that he had begun, would not stop. In whichever way her thoughts turned, wretchedness was upon them, and the day went in one of those despairing and indecisive battles that each one within his own heart must fight at times with heaviness and doubt. McCloud called her over the telephone in the afternoon to say that he was going West on the evening train and would not be over for supper. She wished he could have come, for her loneliness began to be insupportable. Toward sunset she put on her hat and started for the post-office. In the meantime, Dicksie, at home, had called McCloud up and told him she was coming down for the night. He immediately cancelled his plans for going West, and when Marion returned at dusk she found him with Dicksie at the cottage. The three had supper. Afterward Dicksie and McCloud went out for a walk, and Marion was alone in the house when the shop door opened and Whispering Smith walked in. It was dusk. "Don't light the lamps, Marion," he said, sitting down on a counter-stool as he took off his hat. "I want to talk to you just a minute, if you don't mind. You know what has happened. I am called on now to go after Sinclair. I have tried to avoid it, but my hand has been forced. To-day I've been placing horses. I am going to ride to-night with the warrant. I have given him a start of twenty-four hours, hoping he may get out of the country. To stay here means only death to him in the end, and, what is worse, the killing of more and innocent men. But he won't leave the country; do you think he will?" "Oh, I do not know! I am afraid he will not."