and entered it. Storm came afterward.
"You look," he observed, "like you were standing on the peak of Ararat two days after the flood, with no grub in sight."
"Well, I feel like I'd been sent for and was only half present. Ed, you know me pretty well, don't you? There ain't a whole lot you don't fathom about me."
"This has all the earmarks of a touch," grinned Storm. "I've seen you throw back five-inch trout and refuse to shoot a doe. Nothing wrong with your moral integrity."
Niland failed to respond to the humor. He talked in jerky phrases, seemingly far afield. "Ethics. We've all got our professional ethics. They're fine things to start life with. Yet I doubt if there's a professional man living who hasn't violated his creed time and again. For admirable purposes, too. Man builds up a pretty schedule of ideals—and life knocks it flatter than a pancake. When I'm old and shot and look back down the crooked trail I hacked out, I think I'll be kind of sad at the fine thoughts I threw overboard. But I think I'll also hope to hear somebody in the hereafter say, 'Well done, good and faithful servant.'"
"Now that you're all wound up, toss the loop," said Ed Storm.
"I'm going to ask you some questions," went on Niland with a rise of energy. "They're questions you could only properly answer in court, but this is something that never will get to court. It dies outside of sight. You understand, Ed? You know, too that I have never blackmailed a man, never clubbed him down with any information I've had against him."
"Fire away—and we'll see what we see, Al."
"All right. I'm not going to explain anything. If you get any ideas on the subject from the way I bore in—that's under your hat. First, did Lou Redmain ever have an account in this bank?"
"That's easy. No."
"Did he ever cash any checks here—within the last year?"
"Yes."
"Were any of those checks from Cal Steele?"
Storm arched his eyebrows. "No."
"From Fear Langdell?"
"Nope."
Niland paused, stared thoughtfully at the ceiling. "You've cleared checks through the bank from Langdell to Steele for sale of beef. I know that. But have you cleared any checks from Steele to Langdell?"
"No-o," said Storm with a slight drag in the answer. Niland studied the banker. Unconsciously he was exercising his habit as an attorney of reading the qualifications and reservations behind witnesses' answers.
"Listen—was Cal Steele in the habit of drawing out large sums of money at a time?"
"Cash—yes."
Niland plunged into the opening swiftly.
"Right after receiving these checks from Langdell?"
Storm stopped to think. "Not necessarily on the same day or week. But he was a hand to draw heavy whenever his balance got substantially large. My one observation is that on the occasions when he drew considerable cash he'd take a trip south to the capital."
Niland's thoughts went off on this tangent. He was aware that Cal Steele often went away for a few days. On the heels of this reflection he tried to place Langdell's whereabouts at those times and found himself doubtful.
"Does Langdell have a bank account at the capital, Ed?"
"Oh, yes. That'd be necessary for him, considering all the investments he's got scattered around."
"Well, after Steele made his trips to the capital, did you ever observe Langdell switching money from the bank there to your bank?"
"Couldn't answer that without looking into the records," said Storm. He leaned forward in his chair, watching Niland. The lawyer decided to test the meaning of Storm's attention.
"Anything you'd care to say to me, Ed, that might bear on the subject?"
But Storm shook his head. "I'm just giving you straight yes or no answers, Al."
Niland leaned back. "I'd give a great deal to see the written record of Fear Langdell's check account durin' the last six months. And it's criminal as hell to suggest it."
Storm rose without a word and left the room. A few minutes later he came back with a sheaf of papers in his hand. He placed them casually on his desk. "No, Al, I couldn't hand you Langdell's records. That would open me up to all sorts of grief. I'd never want to be placed on the witness stand and have to confess that I verbally gave you any such dope. By the way, I've got to go out front for about ten minutes. Just make yourself at home, Al. I won't be back for ten minutes."
The two men swapped glances. Storm went out and closed the door. Niland leaned forward. Those papers Storm had left on the desk, he saw, were the ledger sheets and transit check records concerning Langdell's account. He drew the crumpled slip from his pocket. Occasionally his pencil touched and checked a figure; but when, an exact ten minutes later, Storm returned, he found Niland slouched idly in the chair. "Sorry I had to run out on you. Anything else you want to know?"
"No," said Niland.
"Whatever has passed between us is confidential."
"I'd like the privilege of tellin' one man, Ed."
"Hell!" grunted Storm, frowning. "Who is it?"
"Denver," replied Niland, and added, "if he's alive."
"I trust you—I trust him. Now I'm going to wash my face and hands."
"I've tried it at times," reflected Niland, getting up. "But what's the use? Nobody can live a useful life without gettin' dirty. What do you expect of Sundown? See you later, Ed."
On the street he found the scene changed somewhat. A great many men were standing just outside Grogan's. Nobody was going in and nobody coming out, but those by the doors seemed intently interested at the sounds emerging. Thinking that Steve Steers had developed a fight, he elbowed through the crowd and entered. Steve was lecturing the room morosely.
"When I tell you buzzards to play cards, then yuh can do it, and not a minute before. This always was a lousy joint, full of petty ante grafters and run by a sticky-fingered mug who's got a spine made o' yella soap. Meems, quit crawlin' against the bar."
Niland came forward, and Steve stopped talking. Both of his elbows were hooked against the bar; he swayed like a tree in a heavy wind. The alcoholic stupor blurred his vision; he failed to recognize Niland until the latter approached to arm's length. Then Steve stiffened—and remembered.
"Any news?"
"None."
"I had ought to of gone along," muttered Steve. "Ruther be dead than wait like this. Have a drink, Al."
Niland shook his head. "How drunk do you have to be, Steve? You're about paralyzed now."
"It ain't enough," sighed Steve. "Grogan, this bug-killer of yores is either rotten poison or else yore miserable mug is double. Always did know yuh to be two-faced."
Grogan leaned against the bottle shelf, breathing hard. One palm lay against a blackjack on the shelf. "I had about enough from you, Steers. My face is good enough for you, and my liquor is straight."
"Both of which is neither," jeered Steve. "Layin' for me, ain't yuh? Try it and I'll break yore back, you ox."
Meems and Wango went off in a sputtering argument. All Grogan's free lunch platters were on the bar in front of them, fearsomely raped. The litter of chicken bones and half bitten sandwiches strewed the floor at their feet.
"Don't yuh eat nothin' but white meat?" demanded Wango. "I been nibblin' on wings and necks till I c'd crow an' fly away. Gimme a chanst."
"Thasso? Ev'time I reach I run into yore cussed arm. Git yore fool head outa the platter. It ain't no bed."
"I'm tellin' yuh once an' all—quit throwin' yore bones anunder my feet!"
"I alius—uck—throw scraps to the