there's a heap of it about ropes and lynching, for instance. If he
hasn't run away yet, he'd better--and I'll tell him so if I see him.
Stubby, red-faced, spindlin', thickset, jolly little man, ain't he?
Heavy-complected, broad-shouldered, dark blond, very tall and
slender, weighs about a hundred and ninety, with a pale skin and a
hollow-cheeked, plump, serious face?"

At this ill-timed and unthinkable levity Breslin stared in
bewilderment; Lisner glared, gripping his fist convulsively; and Mr.
Ben Creagan, an uneasy third inquisitor, breathed hard through his
nose. Anastacio Barela, the fourth and last inquisitor, maintained
unmoved the disinterested attitude he had held since the interrogation
began. Feet crossed, he lounged in his chair, graceful, silent,
smoking, listening, idly observant of wall and ceiling.

No answer being forthcoming to his query Pringle launched another:

"Speaking of faces, Creagan, old sport, what's happened to you and
your nose? You look like someone had spread you on the minutes." He
eyed Creagan with solicitous interest.

Mr. Creagan's battered face betrayed emotion. Pringle's shameless
mendacity shocked him. But it was Creagan's sorry plight that he must
affect never to have seen this insolent Pringle before. The sheriff's
face mottled with wrath. Pringle reflected swiftly: The sheriff's rage
hinted strongly that he was in Creagan's confidence and hence was no
stranger to last night's mishap at the hotel; their silence proclaimed
their treacherous intent.

On the other hand, these two, if not the others, knew very well that