There were things more important than Welling’s sleep, and one of them was Giff Dixon, Fiske thought. He let himself out of the room and tramped down the corridor, heading for the room to which Dixon, beaten up and bloody, had been brought last night. His soft knock on the door brought no response, and gently he palmed the knob and opened the door. Dixon was gone, and for a moment Fiske stood in the doorway, a gloom settling upon him. He likely lit out, and I can’t blame him, he thought. Turning back down the hall, his feeling of guilt deepened. Without even knowing what he was in for, Dixon had volunteered to help last night; and a brutal beating had been his reward. That, of course, finished Dixon; with him gone Fiske could see certain and unpleasant failure on this job, since the only thing reliable about Welling was his thirst. Tramping down the steps, he nodded good morning to the day clerk at the desk and then turned into the dining room on the right. A scattering of guests and townsmen were at breakfast—and among them, Fiske saw, was Dixon.
