CHAPTER XIX
THE FINAL THREAT
HOWARD GRISCOM stared with haggard eyes at the visitor who entered his office. It was fully a minute before he recognized Lamont Cranston.
Griscom smiled feebly. His face was pallid, almost the color of his gray hair. He was a man overburdened with worries.
He tried to rise from his desk, to shake hands. Cranston stopped him with upraised hand.
“I’ve made my decision, Cranston,” said Griscom, in a weak voice. “I’m going through with it — no matter what happens because of Ballantyne!”
His head began to nod; he caught himself with an effort, and regained the dignified expression that was characteristic of his usual bearing.
“You’re fighting it out?” questioned Cranston.
“To the end!” declared Griscom. “I would have yielded if Ballantyne had said the word. But he died with determination. It is up to me to carry on! It’s the only honorable way!”
He paused to stroke his forehead. Griscom’s eyes were half closed; he seemed to be picturing that room where George Ballantyne’s dead body had been discovered.