Calhoun stepped forward mechanically, and picked up the chair. Kirschell dropped into it.
“You're hurt!” Calhoun said huskily. “You're badly hurt!”
“Yes,” Kirschell answered; “but it—can wait. The police first—there was—three thousand dollars—in my cash box.” With an effort he reached out across the desk for the telephone, pulled it toward him—and, on the point of lifting the receiver from the hook, slowly drew back his hand. A strange look settled on his face, a sort of dawning, though puzzled comprehension; and then, swaying in his chair, his lips thinned. He drew his hand still further back until it hovered over the handle of the desk's middle drawer. His eyes, on Calhoun, were narrowing.
“You devil!” he rasped out suddenly. “This is your work! I was a fool that I did not see it at first!”
Calhoun's face went white.
“What do you mean?” he said thickly.
“What I say!” Kirschell's voice was ominously clear now, though he sat none too steadily in his chair.
“Then you lie!” said Calhoun fiercely. “You lie—and if you weren't hurt, I'd——”
“No, you wouldn't!”—Kirschell had whipped the drawer open, and, snatching out a revolver, was covering Calhoun. He laughed a little—bitterly. “I'm not so bad that I can't take care of myself. It was pretty clever, I'll give you credit for that. You almost fooled me.”
“Damn you!” snarled Calhoun. “Do you mean to say I've got your cash box?”