And then Dave Henderson laughed a little, a queer, strange, mirthless laugh, and stood up from the divan.
“Then I'm clear—eh—Millman?” he shot out.
“Yes,” said Millman slowly, “as far as I can see, Dave, you're clear.”
“And free?” There was fierce assertiveness, rather than interrogation, in Dave Henderson's voice. “It's taken five years, but I've got that money now. I guess I've paid for it; and I guess there's no one now to put a crimp in it any more, not even Bookie Skarvan—providing that little proposition of yours, Millman, that month, still stands.”
Millman's face, and Millman's eyes, sobered.
“It stands, Dave,” he said gravely.
“In a month,” said Dave Henderson, “even a fool could get far enough away to cover his trail—couldn't he, Millman? Well, then, there's only Teresa left. She's something like you, Millman. She's for sending that money back, but she's sort of put out of the running—for about a month, too!”
Millman made no answer.
“Five years,” said Dave Henderson, with a hard smile. “Well, it's mine now. Those years were a hell, Millman—a hell—do you understand? But they would only be a little hell compared with the hell to-day if I couldn't get away with that package now without, say, a policeman standing there in the doorway waiting for me.”
“Dave,” said Millman sharply, “what do you mean? What are you going to do?”