"This shooting you've spoken of——"
"This attempted murder!"
"You're dreaming."
Peter laughed at him. "You'll be telling me in a moment that you didn't hear the shots." And then, leaning forward so that he stared deep into his employer's eyes, "See here, Mr. McGuire, I'm not to be trifled with. I know too much of your affairs—more than you think I do——"
"He talked——?" McGuire's poise was slipping from him.
"One moment, if you please. I want this thing perfectly understood. Your arrangements were cleverly made—changing the guards—your instructions to me—the flashlight and all the rest. You didn't want to kill me if you could help it. I'm obliged for this consideration. You forgot that your hand isn't as steady now as it was when you were a dead shot out in Arizona—Ah! I see that you already understand what I mean."
McGuire had started forward in his chair, his face livid.
"You know——?"
"Yes. More than I wanted to know—more than I would ever have known if you'd played fair with me. You cared nothing for my life. You shot, twice, missed killing your man and then when the light went out, sneaked away like the coward that you are——"
"D——n you," croaked McGuire feebly, falling back in his chair.