They say even more, _Miss_
Agnes--if you prefer it--that the murder of the father was not committed
by Andrew Zane without an instigator, perhaps an accessory."
The voice of Agnes was heard in hasty and anxious imploration:
"For pity's sake, say no more. Be silent. Am I not bowed and wretched
enough?"
She came hastily to the fissure of the door and looked in, because Duff
Salter just then sneezed tremendously:
"Jericho-o-o-o! Jer-ry-cho-o-o!"
Podge Byerly reappeared with a pack of cards and shuffled them before
Duff Salter's face.
They sat down and played a game of euchre for a cent a point, the
tablets at hand between them to write whatever was mindful. Duff Salter
was the best player.
"I believe," wrote Podge, "that all Western men are gamblers. Are you?"
He wrote, to her astonishment,
"I was."
"Wasn't it a sin?"
"Not there."
"I thought gambling was a sin everywhere?"
"It is everywhere done," wrote Duff Salter. "You are a gambler."
"That's a fib."
"You risk your heart, capturing another's."
"My heart is gone," added Podge, blushing.
"What's his name?" wrote Duff Salter.
"That's telling."
Again the voices of the two people in the front parlor broke on Podge's
ear:
"You must leave me, Mr.
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