General Wilson drew another long whistle, and his face suddenly became grave again.
"Then he has used half a million of the syndicate's money?"
"I suppose so."
"What in the name of common sense did he do that for?" demanded the general irritably.
"I suppose he was sure he could make it up when the time came," I said in feeble defense.
"They always are," said the general grimly.
"Oh, I have no doubt he had everything calculated out to the last dollar," I returned. "The only thing he didn't calculate on was this knock on the head. If he was on his feet he would have the money in five minutes."
"Well, I suppose he would," said the general. "But he isn't on his feet, and what's the result?"
"The result is smash," said I with grim despair. "Partridge, Nelson and Coleman will be here inside of twenty minutes. When they set foot inside that door, Wharton Kendrick had better be dead."
General Wilson studied vacancy for a minute. Then he said slowly: