And then Dave Henderson laughed a little—not pleasantly.
Well, he was face to face with Millman now. It would be a showdown anyhow. Trap, or no trap, Millman would show his hand. He would know whether Millman had got that money, or whether somebody else had! He would know whether Millman was straight—or whether Millman was a crook!
He jerked his shoulders back sharply; his fingers closed a little more ominously on the revolver in his coat pocket. Was he quite crazy? Had he lost all sense of proportion? The chances were a thousand to one that it was Millman who had looted the pigeon-cote; the chances were one in a thousand that it could have been any one else.
“Yes,” he said coolly. “Nice rooms you've got here, and a bit of a change from—out West!” He jerked his head abruptly toward a door across the room. “I notice you've got a closed door there. I hope I'm not butting in, if you're entertaining friends, or anything like that!” He laughed again—raucously now. His nerves seemed suddenly to be raw and on edge. Millman was favoring him with what, whether it was genuine or not, was meant for a blank stare.
“Friends?” said Millman questioningly. And then his gray eyes softened. “Oh, I see!” he exclaimed. “It's hard to get over the habit, isn't it? No; there's no one there. But perhaps you'd feel better satisfied to look for yourself.”
“I would!” said Dave Henderson bluntly.
“Go ahead, then!” invited Millman readily, and waved his hand toward the door.
“I'll follow you,” said Dave Henderson curtly.
Millman turned toward the door, hesitated, and stopped.
“Dave, what's the matter with you?” he demanded for the second time.