accepted it.

"Why, it's--Mr.--er--Hackley, isn't it?"

The man's bandage left only one eye free to operate, and he kept this
upon Varney with a curious unwinking stare.

"Yes," said he slowly, "I'm Hackley."

"How'd the dog come out?" asked Varney.

"Dead," said Hackley, as quiet in mien as the Hackley of last night was
bellicose. "Dead _an'_ buried."

"I'm sorry," said Varney, his glance on the head-cloth. "The man who did
the kicking was a friend of mine, and he wouldn't want you to lose your
dog without some compensation. Er--please accept this with his
compliments and regrets."

Hackley, his single washed-out eye starting with pleasure, accepted the
proffered note with a gesture resembling a clutch, investigated its size
in the dim light with hardly concealed delight, and pinned it into his
waistcoat pocket with a large brass safety-pin. Then he raised his head
slowly and looked at Varney.

"Why n't you leave town to-night, Stanhope?" he inquired casually.

Varney started. Almost to the very language this was exactly what Editor
Smith had suggested to him the night before.