"
"The criminal 'ud risk less by leavin' the body right here; an' it don't
stand to reason that, after makin' such a haul o' money, he'd take any
chances f'r the sake o' the parcels. No; your the'ry's got as much agin'
it, as the detective's has fur it. It's built on nothin' but random
guesswork. As fur me, I'd rather the young man did get away with the
money,--you say the other fellow'd done him out o' that much, anyhow.
I'd rather that than somebody else got away with him."
"So would I--in the circumstances," confessed Larcher.
Mr. Bud proposed that they should go down to the saloon and "tackle the
soup." Larcher could offer no reason for remaining where they were. As
they rose to go, the young man looked at his fingers, soiled from the
coal-dust on the covers.
"There's a bath-room on this floor; we c'n wash our hands there," said
Mr. Bud, and, after closing up his own apartment, led the way, by the
light of matches, to a small cubicle at the rear of the passage, wherein
were an ancient wood-encased bathtub, two reluctant water-taps, and other
products of a primitive age of plumbing. From this place, discarding the
aid of light, Mr. Bud and his visitor felt their way down-stairs.
"Yes," spoke Mr. Bud, as they descended in the darkness, "one 'ud almost
imagine it was true about his bein' pursued with bad luck. To think of
the young lady turnin' out staunch after all, an' his disappearin' just
in time to miss the news! That beats me!"
"And how do you suppose the young lady feels about it?" said Larcher.
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