But in Sanderson's heart had come a spirit of tolerance toward the little man, for he felt that the effeminacy had resulted from his afflictions.
He was a querulous semi-invalid, trying bravely to imitate his vigorous and healthy friends.
"Thinking it over ?" he queried, looking down at Sanderson.
"Thinkin' what over ?" "Well, just things," grinned the little man.

"For one thing, I suppose you are trying to decide why you didn't sign your name--over in Las Vegas." Sanderson grinned mildly, but did not answer.

He felt more at ease now, and the little man's impertinences did not bother him so much as formerly.

He looked up, however, startled, when Owen said slowly: "Do you want me to tell you why you didn't sign Will Bransford's name to the affidavit ?" Sanderson's eyes did not waver as they met Owen's.
"Tell me," he said evenly.
"Because you are not Will Bransford," said the little man.
Sanderson did not move; nor did he remove his gaze from the face of the little man.

He was not conscious of any emotion whatever.