"Nothing, just yet. Say, those stones around her neck look good to me."
Hanson narrowed his eyes.

"Good!" Jimmy laughed shortly, a characteristic, mirthful little
chuckle. "I guess so. Bob Flick, up there beside Pearl, counting that
money, he gave 'em to her after she found him when he'd been lost on the
desert about three days. I'll tell you about it when I got more time."

Hanson had been conscious from time to time of the close but furtive
scrutiny of the man whom the bar-keeper had designated as Bob Flick, and
now he, in turn, made Flick an object of observation.

He saw a tall man of noticeable languor and deliberation of movement,
doubtless so long studied that it had become natural. His face, with
regular, rather aquiline features, was devoid of expression, almost
mask-like, while the deep lines about the mouth and eyes showed that he
lived much in the hard, brilliant, western sunlight.

Hanson was quick enough to size up a man and a situation. "I'll make a
note to look out for you," he thought, "just about as cold and just
about as deadly as a rattler."

"Say," he turned to Jimmy again, "I want to meet her. I'm a theatrical
manager, always looking out for new turns. Heard of this Black Pearl and
thought I'd run down and sign her up if I could."

"She does go traveling once in a while," returned Jimmy dubiously, "but
it's all in the mood she's in whether she'll let you even talk to her.
You might as well count on the desert out there as the Pearl."