“Clever, eh?” he sneered. He spoke softly, for the dawn was not far away, and he knew that a voice carries resonantly at that hour.
“I don’t understand you!” Judicial dignity sat sadly on the Judge; he was tired and haggard, and his voice was a weak treble. “If you mean—”
“I’ll show you what I mean.” Corrigan motioned to the deputies. “Bring him along!” Leading the way he took them through Manti’s back door across a railroad spur to a shanty beside the track which the engineer in charge of the dam occasionally occupied when his duty compelled him to check up arriving material and supplies. Because plans and other valuable papers were sometimes left in the shed it was stoutly built, covered with corrugated iron, and the windows barred with iron, prison-like. Reaching the shed, Corrigan unlocked the door, shoved the Judge inside, closed the door on the Judge’s indignant protests, questioned the deputies briefly, gave them orders and then re-entered the shed, closing the door behind him.
He towered over the Judge, who had sunk weakly to a bench. It was pitch dark in the shed, but Corrigan had seen the Judge drop on the bench and knew exactly where he was.
“I want the whole story—without any reservations,” said Corrigan, hoarsely; “and I want it quick—as fast as you can talk!”
The Judge got up, resenting the other’s tone. He had also a half-formed resolution to assert his independence, for he had received certain assurances from Trevison with regard to his past which had impressed him—and still impressed him.
“I refuse to be questioned by you, sir—especially in this manner! I do not purpose to take further—”
The Judge felt Corrigan’s fingers at his throat, and gasped with horror, throwing up his hands to ward them off, failed, and heard Corrigan’s laugh as the fingers gripped his throat and held.
When the Judge came to, it was with an excruciatingly painful struggle that left him shrinking and nerveless, lying in a corner, blinking at the light of a kerosene lamp. Corrigan sat on the edge of a flat-topped desk watching him with an ugly, appraising, speculative grin. It was as though the man were mentally gambling on his chances to recover from the throttling.
“Well,” he said when the Judge at last struggled and sat up; “how do you like it? You’ll get more if you don’t talk fast and straight! Who wrote that letter, from Dry Bottom?”