“I guess from the look of you,” Crang leered, “you've put in those thirty minutes to good advantage. You're about ready to write that letter, aren't you?”
John Bruce looked around him miserably. He shook his head.
“No—no; I—I can't,” he said weakly. “For God's sake, Crang, you—you know I can't.”
“Sure—I know!” said Crang imperturbably. He nodded to the man with the stiletto. “He's more used to steel than bullets, and he likes it better. Don't keep him waiting.”
John Bruce felt the sudden prick of the weapon on his flesh—it went a little deeper.
“Wait! Stop!” he screamed out in a well-simulated paroxysm of terror. “I—I'll write it.”
“I thought so!” said Crang coolly. “Well, go over there to the table then, and sit down.” He turned to the two men. “Beat it!” he snapped—and the room empty again, save for himself and John Bruce, he tapped the sheet of paper with the muzzle of his revolver. “I'll dictate. Pick up that pen!”
John Bruce obeyed. He circled his lips with his tongue.
“You—you won't do Larmon any harm, will you?” he questioned abjectly. “I—my life's worth more than a little money, if it's only that, and—and, if that's all, I—I'm sure he'd rather pay.”
“Don't apologize!” sneered Crang. “Go on now, and write. Address him as you always do.”