"How are you, Mr. Oldham?" he greeted the older man; "when did you get
in?"
"About an hour ago," replied Oldham. His spare figure in the gray
business suit did not stir from its lazy posture, nor did the expression
of his thin sardonic face change, but somehow, after swallowing his
drink, Bob decided to revise his first intention of escaping to his
room.
"An hour ago," he repeated, when the import of the words finally
filtered through his mental turmoil. "You travelled up at night then?"
"Yes. It's getting hot on the plains."
"Got in just before daylight, then?"
"Just before. I'd have made it sooner, but I had to work my way through
the cattle."
"Where's your team?"
"I left it down at the Company's stables; thought you wouldn't mind."
"Sure not," said Bob.
The Company's stables were at the other end of the village. Oldham must
have walked the length of the street. He had said it was before
daylight; but the look of the man's eyes was quizzical and cold behind
the glasses. Still, it was always quizzical and cold. Bob called himself
a panicky fool. Just the same, he wished now he had looked for
footprints in the dust of the street.
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