He stopped suddenly. His eyes met the Hawk's. The telephone on the table was ringing.
The Hawk hesitated. Into the Butcher's eyes, narrowed now, there seemed to have come a mocking gleam. The telephone rang again. And then the Hawk reached out abruptly, and took the receiver from the hook.
“Hello!” he said gruffly.
“Four X. Who's that?” responded a voice.
There was something familiar about the voice, but he could not on the instant place it. The Hawk's mind, even as he answered, was swiftly cataloguing every member of the gang known to him in an effort to identify it.
“The Bantam,” he said.
“All right,” replied the voice. “Give me the Butcher.”
“Hold the line,” answered the Hawk.
He placed his hand over the transmitter. The voice was still eluding him. He turned, and eyed the Butcher.
“Four X wants you, Butcher.” All the drawl, all the insouciance was gone now; his voice was hard with menace, cold as death. “And you're going to speak to him—but you're going to say what I tell you to say. But before you begin, I want you to remember the little account between us that's been hanging over since that night in the paymaster's office. If you make a break, if you try to frame me—I'll settle that account here to-night, while you sit in that chair. If you hesitate on a word, I'll fire—and not through my pocket, you yellow cur! Understand? Don't kid yourself on this, Butcher! If I nod my head, say 'yes'—and no more. Now!”