Calhoun turned on the other like a man demented.
“Do you think I'd touch that cash! Or touch that note—I owe it! I may not have been able to pay it—but I owe it!”
“Oh, well, suit yourself as to that, too!” said the man cynically. “It's the other thing we want. What's the wife and the kids you're talking about going to do if you go up for twenty years?”
Calhoun, with a miserable cry, buried his face in his hands.
There was silence—a minute dragged by.
“Well?” prompted the man curtly.
Calhoun dropped his hands, met the other's eyes for an instant—and turned his head away.
“Ah, I thought you would!” said the man calmly. “My pal ought to be back by now, and as soon as he comes we'll go in there and hand Kirschell his little jolt, and——” He stopped. There was a light rapping on the entrance door. “Here he is now! We'll——”
The Hawk was retreating back along the corridor. Again he opened the door of what he had designated to himself as the secretary's office, and for the second time that night stepped silently into the room, closing the door behind him. The sound of running water came from Kirschell's private office, but there was no other sound—the Hawk made none as he once more gained his place of vantage behind the desk. Kirschell was bending over the washbowl, his back turned, bathing his temple and face, and now, straightening up, he bound a towel tightly around his head.
The Hawk watched the proceedings impassively, his head, in that bird-like, listening attitude, cocked on one shoulder toward the outer door. Steps were coming along the corridor. But this time Kirschell, too, heard them—for he turned, and, as the corridor door opened, started toward his desk. He reached it and sat down, as Calhoun entered the room.