"Well, are you ready to pay for it?" demanded McAllister sharply.
The Colonel hesitated, looking from one to the other. Clearly he could not determine just how matters stood.
"Well," he remarked finally, "I can't pay for it just this minute, but I'll go right out and get the money. You see, I didn't expect you back quite so soon. Who does the stock belong to, anyhow—you, or Murphy?"
"At present it belongs to me," said the clubman.
As McAllister spoke he stepped in front of the door leading into the directors' room. From below came faintly the rattle of the street and the clang of electric cars, while in the outer office could be heard the merry tattoo of the typewriters. Could it be possible that in this opulently furnished office, with its rosewood desk and chairs, its Persian rugs and paintings, its plate glass and heavy curtains, he was confronting a crew of swindlers of whom his own valet was an accomplice? It was almost past belief. Yet, as he recalled Wainwright's vivid description of the fall of Tomlinson, the scene at Rector's, the advertisement in the Herald, and the strange occurrences of the morning, he perceived that there could be no question in the matter. He was facing three common—or rather most uncommon—thieves, all of whom probably had served more than one term in State prison—desperate characters, who would not hesitate to use force, or worse, should it appear necessary. For a moment the clubman lost heart. He might be murdered, and no one be the wiser. Then a vague shadow flickered against the opaque glass of the main door, and McAllister gained new courage. Conville was just outside, with Tomlinson—although the latter could not be regarded as a valuable auxiliary in the event of a hand-to-hand struggle. Was he safe in counting on Wilkins? What if the ex-convict should go back on him? How did the valet know but that, by assisting his master, he was sending himself to State prison? McAllister had a fleeting desire to turn and dart from the room. What business had a middle-aged clubman turning detective, anyway? Then he braced himself, took a good grip of his stout walking-stick, and turned to the Colonel with an assumption of calmness which he was very far from feeling. The noonday sun streamed into the windows and threw into strong relief the muscular figures of the group about him.
"I'm afraid you've been deceived in Murphy," he remarked coolly. "He isn't an engineer at all; he's just an ex-convict."
The Colonel uttered a swift oath and snatched a Colt from an open drawer of the desk. Herbert turned fiercely upon the clubman. Wilkins dropped his crutch.
"What are you giving us!" cried the Colonel.
"I'll leave it to him," added McAllister. "By the way, his name isn't Murphy at all—it's Wilkins—or Welch, if you prefer."
"What's this—a plant?" yelled Herbert. "By God, if——"