Beaton, surprised by the language of the other, remained silent, his
face turning purple, as a suspicion came to him that he was being made
a fool of.

"It is this, my friend--who she is, what she is, and why she happens to
be here, is none of your damn business, and if you so much as mention
her name again in my presence you are going to regret it to your dying
day. That's all."

Beaton, glancing about at the uplifted faces of the card-players, chose
to assume an air of indifference, which scarcely accorded with the
anger in his eyes.

"Ah, come now," he blurted forth, "I didn't mean anything; there's no
harm done--let's have a drink, and be friends."

Westcott shook his head.

"No, I think not," he said slowly. "I'm not much of a drinking man
myself, and when I do I choose my own company. But let me tell you
something, Beaton, for your own good. I know your style, and you are
mighty apt to get into trouble out here if you use any Bowery tactics."

"Bowery tactics!"

"Yes; you claim to live in New York, and you possess all the earmarks
of the East-Side bad man. There is nothing keeping you now from
roughing it with me but the sight of this gun in my belt, and a
suspicion in your mind that I may know how to use it. That suspicion