Charles E. Van Loan

“ Dacey paused. Buckshot John's face told him nothing. The convict was staring straight in front of him, expressionless as if he had been carved out of wood.
"If you think for a minute that you can trust a man of that kind, John," urged the reporter kindly, "you're making a mistake. If there was anything to be split up, and the doc had the ax, your end wouldn't be big enough to buy swimming-trunks for a water-bug. You're in bad, I tell you—awful bad. This fellow will shear you like a sheep. He makes his living trimming smarter people than you ever saw!" ”

“ You're up against one of the smoothest confidence men in the country. I've known him for years, off and on, and this is the first time I've ever had a real line on him. He's been everything in the way of a grafter—hypnotist, conjurer, palmist, street faker—and as a trance medium there isn't his equal in the country. ”

“ He lowered his voice confidentially, eying the convict narrowly as he continued. "I know the man who was here a week ago Thursday. I know he lied to the warden about his name and his business. Magazine writer! That fellow ain't any more of a magazine writer than you are. That was Doc Gilmore!"
Buckshot John closed his eyes. His face bore an expression of patient resignation. Dacey's first shot had missed the mark, and he felt it, without knowing why.
"John," said he suddenly, "I want to know what's coming off here. You needn't look so sanctified or shocked. ”