The level dislike in the other's tone disconcerted the huge man not at all. He was wise enough to drop it there. But it set him thinking as he retraced his way to the private car. The fox-faced man and the reporter who was monosyllabic were waiting for his return. "How much?" This from Fox-face, avidly. He had seen money change hands. "Two hundred. He was stony!" "He did look hungry." This from the reporter, ruminatingly. "I sent him on to Larrabie." "Bet you a hundred that Larrabie never sees him!" "I'll take that," said the reporter. But Fox-face, perceiving better ones, changed the terms of his proffered wager. "Bet you a hundred you never hear from him, even if he does meet Condit." He hurled this at the huge man, disdaining the reporter. "Bet you you've not heard from him in three years--in five!" "There's too many sure things in this world," opined the huge man, calm under Fox-face's challenge with something like contempt, "to bother with a gamble." He squinted a moment in thought. "But when we pull into Shell you'd better wire Larrabie to be discreet. If he wants to know who D. is, better advise Larrabie to call me 'Denver'--'Denver' Smith will do. Just a disinterested party." And at that Fox-face was instantly, visibly consumed with curiosity. The reporter looked almost as though he understood. "He might not approve of me," he chose to be downright, and enlighten Fox-face at the same time. "He doesn't now, as it is." And then he laughed softly, as if at himself. "It's funny, too. I suppose he's like all of them, drunk every pay-day while his money holds out, and a familiar face at every brothel. And yet from the way he looked at me--" He shook his head, not in anger but amiable meditation. "It's funny," he repeated, and let it go at that. So it remained a conundrum to Fox-face. The reporter, however, was now sure that he had understood. He was sorry that he had not gone out to speak to Blue Jeans himself. And now the fat man was speaking again. "He'll go to Estabrook, and he'll earn his two hundred. No room for doubt. But beyond that--" he shook his head. He could talk frankly to the reporter, for he never talked for publication. "He looked honest--but it was a bad hunch, I'm afraid. I'm not so certain but what he would prove to be too honest, for any practical purpose, if he ever did come through." "You've seen the last of him," stated Fox-face omnisciently. But they hadn't. Blue Jeans was invisible for a while, then he reappeared, and the water from the tank overflow had done much for man and beast. He looked almost neat, and very shining and clean. And the huge man, the reporter observed, must have been mistaken about the brothels. Blue Jeans was no prude--no sissy--but a man had to draw the line somewhere. Wherefore his lips did not puff and sag, his eyeballs were not mottled.