The words kept ringing in his ears as he listened to the conversation inside the room—the partition was thin, the door thinner, and he heard much. Foyle had asked him not to intervene, but only to stand by and await the issue of this final conference. He meant, however, to take a hand in if he thought he was needed, and he kept his ear glued to the door. If he thought Foyle needed him—his fingers were on the handle of the door.
“Now, hurry up! What do you want with me?” asked Halbeck of his brother.
“Take your time,” said ex-Sergeant Foyle, as he drew the blind three-quarters down, so that they could not be seen from the street.
“I’m in a hurry, I tell you. I’ve got my plans. I’m going South. I’ve only just time to catch the Canadian Pacific three days from now, riding hard.”
“You’re not going South, Dorl.”
“Where am I going, then?” was the sneering reply.
“Not farther than the Happy Land.”
“What the devil’s all this? You don’t mean you’re trying to arrest me again, after letting me go?”
“You don’t need to ask. You’re my prisoner. You’re my prisoner,” he said, in a louder voice—“until you free yourself.”