"There you are now—I knew you were in," he shouted, as he caught sight of Dumont. "Call these curs off, Jack!"
"Let him alone," snarled Dumont.
Fanshaw was released. He advanced into Dumont's office, straightening his clothing and panting with exertion, excitement and anger. Dumont closed the door. "Well," he said surlily. "What d' you want?"
"I'll have to go to the wall at half-past ten if you don't help me out," said Fanshaw. "The Montana election went against my crowd—I'm in the copper deal. There's a slump, but the stock's dead sure to go up within a week."
"In trouble again?" sneered Dumont. "It's been only three months since I pulled you through."
"You didn't lose anything by it, did you?" retorted Fanshaw—he had recovered himself and was eying Dumont with the cool, steady, significant stare of one rascal at another whom he thinks he has in his power.
Before that look Dumont flushed an angrier red. "I won't do it again!" and he brought his fist down with a bang.
"All I want is five hundred thousand to carry my copper for a week at the outside. If I get it I'll clear a million. If I don't"—Fanshaw shrugged his shoulders—"I'll be cleaned out." He looked with narrowed, shifting eyes at Dumont. "My wife has all she's got in this," he went on, "even her jewels."
Dumont's look shot straight into Fanshaw's.
"Not a cent!" he said with vicious emphasis. "Not a red!"