The latter stooped and gathered in the weapon, which had fallen from the chauffeur’s hand when he fell.
“Come on to the house, Hibbard,” said young Pembroke. “We’ll let the governor talk with you.”
“I don’t want to talk with the judge,” growled Hibbard. “Take me to jail, if that’s what you’re plannin’ to do.”
“Not much! You’ll face the governor. Step lively, and don’t try to get away. If you make a move to run, the bullets will chase you!”
Between Clancy and Pembroke the rascally chauffeur was led back toward the house.
“You’re responsible for this, Clancy!” snarled Hibbard.
“I don’t know whether I am or not,” Clancy answered. “I guess Mr. Pembroke was next to what you were doing before we reached the house.”
“You’d better jug me,” said Hibbard to Clancy, through his teeth, “or I’ll camp on your trail and settle for you. You’re running up a pretty big score.”
“Your name Clancy?” queried Pembroke.
“Yes,” Owen answered.