When at last the twinkling lights of Dead Man's Alley winked at them
Comstock struck a match and looked at his watch.
"Fifteen minutes of twelve," he said. "You're on time. And I guess you
can do the rest of your riding alone? So long. I'm apt to drop in on you
at the ranch any day."
Comstock had planned to ride straight to the Brown Bear saloon, to
invest in a stack of chips, and to spend the evening "seeing the town."
And Thornton, understanding that if the note from Winifred Waverly were
truthful in all that it said and in all that it suggested, it would be
as well if he were not seen tonight, turned out along the outskirts of
the village to come to Pollard's house without riding through the main
street.
"Easy, Comet, easy," he muttered to his horse, having no desire to come
to the appointed place before the appointed hour. "We've got fifteen
minutes and then won't have to keep the lady waiting. If she's there,
Comet!"
For even yet his suspicions were not all at rest, already he rode with
reins and quirt in the grip of his left hand, the right caught in the
loose band of his chaps. It lacked but a few minutes of midnight when he
entered the dark, silent street in which was Henry Pollard's house.
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