Mr. Hamlin turned into the hotel.

"Smart little chap that!" he said to the barkeeper.

"You bet!" returned the man, who, having recognized Mr. Hamlin, was
delighted at the prospect of conversing with a gentleman of such
decidedly dangerous reputation. "But he's been allowed to run a little
wild since old man Delatour died, and the widder's got enough to do, I
reckon, lookin' arter her four gals, and takin' keer of old Delatour's
ranch over yonder. I guess it's pretty hard sleddin' for her sometimes
to get clo'es and grub for the famerly, without follerin' Bob around."

"Sharp girls, too, I reckon; one of them writes things for the
magazines, doesn't she?--Cynthia, eh?" said Mr. Hamlin, carelessly.

Evidently this fact was not a notorious one to the barkeeper. He,
however, said, "Dunno; mabbee; her father was eddicated, and the widder
Delatour, too, though she's sorter queer, I've heard tell. Lord!
Mr. Hamlin, YOU oughter remember old man Delatour! From Opelousas,
Louisiany, you know! High old sport French style, frilled
bosom--open-handed, and us'ter buck ag'in' faro awful! Why, he dropped
a heap o' money to YOU over in San Jose two years ago at poker! You must
remember him!"

The slightest possible flush passed over Mr. Hamlin's brow under the
shadow of his hat, but did not get lower than his eyes. He suddenly HAD
recalled the spendthrift Delatour perfectly, and as quickly regretted
now that he had not doubled the honorarium he had just sent to his
portionless daughter. But he only said, coolly, "No," and then, raising
his pale face and audacious eyes, continued in his laziest and most