"He wouldn't tell me. But he was all kinds of anxious to see you. That was why I telegraphed you; I couldn't get rid of him any other way."
"Let me see the copy of the message."
Again Collins made a journey to his desk, returning with the telegraph-impression book open at the proper page. Blount glanced at the copy of the brief message: "Thomas Gryson wants to know when he can be sure of finding you here," and handed the book back.
"How did you send that?" he asked.
"I sent it down to the despatcher's office by Barney."
Blount nodded. The message had not reached him; and its suppression was doubtless another move in the subtle game.
"You say you couldn't find out what Gryson wanted?" he pressed.
"He—he seemed to be all torn up about something; couldn't say three words without putting a cuss word in with them. The most I could get out of him was that somebody was trying to double-cross him."
Blount took a cigar from his pocket and lighted it. He was faint for lack of food, but he absently mistook the hunger for the tobacco craving.