--one of the best. Perhaps
you recall the Bowker murder?"

"Vaguely," I answered.

"It was Woodruff who did it. We had a hard time getting him off. Bowker
and Woodruff's younger brother were playing cards one day, and Bowker
accused him of cheating. Young Woodruff drew,--perhaps they both drew at
the same time. At any rate, Bowker shot first and killed his man,--he
got off on the plea of self-defense. It was two years before Bowker and
Doc met,--in the lobby of the Palmer House,--I happened to be there. I
was talking to a friend when suddenly I felt as if something awful was
about to happen. I started up, and saw Bowker just rising from a table
at the far end of the room. I shan't ever forget his look,--like a bird
charmed by a snake. His lips were ajar and wrinkled as if his blood had
fled away inside of him, and his throat was expanding and contracting."

Roebuck wiped beads of sweat from his forehead. "It was Doc Woodruff
walking slowly toward him, with a wicked smile on his face, and that
scar--you noticed the scar?"

I nodded.

"Well, you can imagine how that scar stood out. He came slowly on,
nobody able to move a muscle to stop him. When he was about ten feet
from Bowker and as near me as you are now, Bowker gave a kind of shudder
and scream of fright, drew his pistol, and fired. The bullet clipped
Woodruff's ear. Quick as that--" Roebuck snapped his fingers--"Doc drew,
and sent a bullet into his heart. He fell forward across the table and
his pistol crashed on the marble floor. Doc looked at him, gave a cold
sort of laugh, like a jeer and a curse, and walked out into the street.
When he met a policeman he said, 'I've killed Dick Bowker. Here's my
gun. Lock me up'--perfectly cool, just as he talked to us to-night."

"And you got him off?"

"Yes. I hated to do it, too, for Dick was one of my best friends. But
Doc was too useful to us. In his line he's without an equal."

"How did he get that scar?" said I.

"Nobody knows. He left here when he was a boy,--to avoid being sent to
the reformatory. When he turned up, after a dozen years, he said he had
been a doctor, but didn't say where or how. And he had that scar. One
day a man asked him how he got it. He picked up a bottle, and, with his
pleasant laugh, broke it over the fellow's jaw. 'About like that,' said
he. People don't ask him questions."

"He's my man," said I.

VII

BYGONES

A telegram had been thrust under my door--"I must see you.