“So long, then,” Westcott said, slipping out.
“So long,” and the key turned in the lock.
CHAPTER II
Having secured the door, Barker took the key from the lock and hung his hat upon the knob.
“Don’t want anyone peeking in,” he murmured, as he resumed his seat by the fire. He was no longer cold, but there was companionship in its glow.
The meager little office was a palace compared with the cell from which he had escaped, he thought as he looked about him in the dim light from the open door of the stove.
“If he plays me any more tricks—” His mind reverted to Westcott, and the cold sweat stood upon his forehead at the idea of possible treachery.
“Pshaw!” he muttered. “There’s nothing more he can do. He’s done it all. God! To think I swore to kill him at sight, and here I am begging favors of him.”
The angry snarl in his voice changed to a cough, and ended in a whimper.
“I couldn’t do anything else,” he pleaded, as though arguing with someone. “I want to get back east. I want to die in the open. Hell! I was going mad in that hole.”