“I have no document.”
The man in the chair leaned forward. The muzzle of his revolver was very bright, and he held it in fingers which were firm as a rock.
“Give it to me!” he repeated. “You ought to know that you are not dealing with men who are unaccustomed to death. You have it about you. Produce it, and I’ve done with you. Deny me, and you have not time to say your prayers!”
Laverick was leaning against a small table which stood near the door. His fingers suddenly gripped the ledger which lay upon it. He held it in front of his face for a single moment, and then dashed it at his visitor. He followed behind with one desperate spring. Once, twice, the revolver barked out. Laverick felt the skin of his temple burn and a flick on the ear which reminded him of his school-days. Then his hand was upon the other man’s throat and the revolver lay upon the carpet.
“We’ll see about that. By the Lord, I’ve a good mind to wring the life out of you. That bullet of yours might have been in my temple.”
“It was meant to be there,” the man gasped. “Hand over the document, you pig-headed fool! It’ll cost you your life—if not to-day, to-morrow.”
“I’ll be hanged if you get it, anyway!” Laverick answered fiercely. “You assassin! Scoundrel! To come here and make a cold-blooded effort at murder! You shall see what you think of the inside of an English prison.”
The man laughed contemptuously.
“And what about the pocket-book?” he asked.
Laverick was silent. His assailant smiled and shrugged his shoulders.