Perhaps it was faulty, for it hinged upon the vagaries of a wanton character who could not be depended upon.

But Warden had to take that chance.
And Warden's reasoning, of late, had been influenced by his passionate hatred of Lawler.

That hatred had warped his judgment until he had become a creature guided by the savage impulses that filled his brain.
When he left Slade and Ruth at the door of the Wolf, he went directly to his office, taking Singleton with him.

He lit a kerosene lamp, built a fire in the small stove that stood in a corner; seated himself in a chair, motioned Singleton to another, lit a cigar and smoked--his eyes gleaming with the vindictive joy he felt.
However, the cigar in his mouth was not half smoked, when from a distance, on the steady west wind, was borne to his ears the faint, wailing shriek of a locomotive whistle.
The cigar drooped from his lips and he looked swiftly at Singleton.
Singleton had heard the sound, too, for his eyes had narrowed and his attitude had become tense.
That both men had the same thought was evidenced by the glance they exchanged--incipient apprehension.
"It's a freight, likely," muttered Singleton.
Warden took a nervous puff at his cigar.

Then he got up, walked to a window and stood, looking out into the night.