“Damn you?” he spluttered. “Damn you! May my hand rot off before it writes any such letter for you!”
Lawless took an envelope and paper from his pocket, and calmly placed and held in position the envelope on the improvised writing-pad.
“Now,” he said, presenting it as he had the official receipt, “you will please address this to the Manager.”
“That I never will,” Van Bleit blustered. “S’elp me, I never will.”
“Tom,” said Lawless in a voice of deadly quiet, “when I give the word, don’t hesitate to fire.”
“Right-ho?” Hayhurst answered cheerfully. “My only fear is that this weapon of mine is so eager it may go off on its own account.”
Lawless looked Van Bleit steadily in the eyes.
“I want you to understand,” he said, “that I am in earnest when I say that it is your life against these letters. Personally, I would quite as soon it were your life. The letters are nothing to me; but they are of considerable importance to other people... I doubt, on the whole, whether I should not be doing them and society at large a greater service by putting an end to you. I don’t intend wasting my time in persuasion. Either you write as I direct, or I put a bullet through your heart.”
In his chagrin and utter helplessness Van Bleit began to whimper.
“What have I ever done to you,” he asked, “that you should hunt me down as you have? It’s all spite—and jealousy. I’d like to kill you... I will kill you for this. My turn will come.”