Whitney Barnes threw up his hands and ejaculated:
“Good night!” He made as if to start for the door.
“No, no, Whitney,” cried Gladwin, “we must see this thing through together. You wouldn’t want this sweet, young, innocent girl connected with a sensational robbery, would you?”
“No,” Barnes agreed soberly; “neither would I want any robber’s bullets connected with me.”
“You’re a coward!” blurted Gladwin, hotly.
“You bet I am,” acquiesced Barnes, “and I’m alive to tell it. Likewise I may have some marriage plans of my own. But keep your hair on, Travers. Let us do some real thinking, unaccustomed as we are to it, and see if we cannot devise some safer plan.”
“What plan is there?” groaned Gladwin.
“Let us think––concentrate,” suggested Barnes, posing himself with his elbow on one hand and his forehead supported on the fingers of the other. Gladwin unconsciously fell into the same pose, and so they stood, side by side, with their backs to the hallway.
“Thought of anything?” Barnes broke the silence.
“Not a ––– thing,” retorted Gladwin, peevishly. 123 A broken-legged minute had crawled by when Barnes spoke again: