It was unfastened, and he stepped quietly within, closing it behind him.
A small lamp was on the washstand, a half-emptied bottle and two glasses beside it, while a pack of cards lay scattered on the floor.

Fully dressed, except for a coat, the sole occupant lay on the bed, but started up at Keith's unceremonious entrance, reaching for his revolver, which had slipped to the wrong side of his belt.
"What the hell!" he exclaimed, startled and confused.
The intruder took one glance at him through the dingy light--a boy of eighteen, dark hair, dark eyes, his face, already exhibiting signs of dissipation, yet manly enough in chin and mouth--and smiled.
"I could draw while you were thinking about it," he said, easily, "but I am not here on the fight.

Are you Fred Willoughby ?" The lad stared at him, his uncertain hand now closed on the butt of his revolver, yet held inactive by the other's quiet assurance.
"What do you want to know for ?" "Curiosity largely; thought I'd like to ask you a question or two." "You--you're not from the fort ?" "Nothing to do with the army; this is a private affair." The boy was sullen from drink, his eyes heavy.
"Then who the devil are you?
I never saw you before." "That's very true, and my name wouldn't help any.

Nevertheless, you're perfectly welcome to it.

I am Jack Keith." No expression of recognition came into the face of the other, and Keith added curtly, "Shall we talk ?" There was a moment's silence, and then Willoughby swung his feet over the edge of the bed onto the floor.
"Fire away," he said shortly, "until I see what the game is about.".