“Out there in the hall,” he said coldly, “I heard Mr. Calhoun refuse to take back his note—from a thief. You”—his revolver muzzle jerked toward the short man—“hand it out!”
The man reached viciously into his pocket, and tossed the note on the desk.
The Hawk pushed it toward Kirschell.
“Mr. Kirschell,” he said quietly, “you no doubt had good reasons for it, but you have none the less falsely accused Mr. Calhoun. Furthermore, Mr. Calhoun has been instrumental in laying these two who have confessed by the heels. Under the circumstances, if you are the man I think you are, you will tear that up.”
Kirschell lingered the note for an instant. He looked from Calhoun to the Hawk, and back at Calhoun again.
“Yes,” he said abruptly—and tore it into several pieces. “I suppose I could hardly do less. You are quite right! And, Mr. Calhoun, I—I apologise to you.”
A flush spread over Calhoun's face. He swallowed hard, and his lips quivered slightly.
“Mr. Kirschell,” he stammered, “I—I——”
“That's all right!” interposed the Hawk whimsically. “Don't start any mutual admiration society. I dislike embarrassing situations; and besides, Mr. Calhoun”—his eyes travelled from one to the other of the two masked men—“I think you had better go now.”
“Go?” repeated Calhoun, somewhat bewilderedly.