‘Why don’t you give me up to the police?’ said Raphael Craig, opening his eyes and yawning. ‘You’ve got Featherstone’s confession, as you call it. Surely that would be simpler than all this rigmarole.’
The manager’s voice was pregnant with sarcasm.
‘I will tell you,’ said Lock frankly; ‘there is no reason why I should not: I have lost the confounded thing, or it has been stolen.’ He laughed harshly. ‘However, that’s no matter. I can dispense with that—now.’
‘You can’t do anything,’ returned Craig. ‘You’ve got me here—you and your gang between you. But you can’t do anything. In three days your ruin will be complete.’
‘Not do anything!’ said Simon Lock; ‘there are ways and means of compulsion. There are worse things than death, Craig. You decline to sign?’
Raphael closed his eyes again, coldly smiling.
‘Terrell,’ called Simon Lock sharply, ‘bring the——’
But what horrible, unmentionable things Terrell was to bring in will never be known, for at that instant Richard rushed madly into the room. He saw a revolver lying on the desk in front of Simon Lock. He frantically snatched it up, and stood fronting Simon Lock.
‘Well done, Redgrave!’ said the old man.
Simon’s face went like white paper.