“Then you can get out of this office, you skulking, blackmailing scoundrel, or I’ll throw you out of the window. Go, and don’t be slow about it, for my fingers are itching to get hold of you. I’m through with you!”
For an instant, Cranston was dumbfounded by the sudden revulsion of position. He had believed the money practically in his grasp, and instead he encountered this dismissal of contempt and abuse. But his surprise was only for an instant. Then a flood of senseless anger, verging on madness, seized him. He had but one impulse and that was to punish the man who had led him on, only to throw him down. There was a flash of a pistol in his hand as he said:
“But I’m not through with you, by God!”
“You don’t need that to send you to State’s prison,” said a voice behind him, as a hand, seemingly of steel, grasped his and wrenched away the pistol. He turned and saw Trafford standing behind him.
“By God, this is a dirty, contemptible trick, Trafford,” he gasped.
“I guess that’s so, too,” Trafford answered, coolly, as he drew the charges from the revolver, before handing it back to Cranston; “but unfortunately there are some situations in life that can’t be reached by anything else, and this seems to be one of ’em.”
“Now will you go?” demanded Matthewson, “while I’ve a notion to let you?”
“I’ll go,” the man muttered; “but you aren’t through with me yet!”
“When you feel a particular desire for free quarters at Thomaston, just meddle with my affairs again,” retorted Matthewson. “Until you do feel that way, you’d better let them alone.”