"Exactly," said the old man jerkily.
"I shouldn't say that shooting a defenseless man answers that requirement."
McGuire threw up his hands wildly.
"There you go—up in the air again. I didn't say you were to shoot him, did I?" he whined. "I'm just warning you to be on the lookout in case he attacks you. That—that's all."
"Why should he attack me?"
"He shouldn't, but he might be angry because I didn't come myself."
"I see. Perhaps you'd better go, sir. Then you can do your killing yourself."
McGuire fell back against the table, to which he clung, his face gray with apprehension, for he saw that Peter had guessed what he hoped.
"You want this man killed," Peter went on. "It's been obvious to me from the first night I came here. Well, I'm not going to be the one to do it."
McGuire's glance fell to the rug as he stammered hoarsely, "I—I never asked you to do it. Y-you must be dreaming. I—I'm merely making plans to assure your safety. I don't want you hurt, Nichols. That's all. You're not going to back out now?" he pleaded.