“You lie!”
“Thank you.”
Tom had gotten his drawl back.
“Do you want to have the trigger of that pistol pulled?” cried ’Gene Black hoarsely.
“I certainly don’t,” Tom confessed. “Neither do I doubt that you fellows are scoundrels enough to do such a trick. However, I can’t help you, even though I have to lose my life for my ignorance. I honestly don’t know the right signature for Brewster’s tonight. That information doesn’t belong to the engineering department, anyway.”
“Shall I pull the trigger, Black?” asked the man who held the weapon to Reade’s head.
“Yes; if he doesn’t soon come to his senses,” snarled Black.
“I’ve already told you,” persisted Tom, “that I couldn’t give you the proper signature, even if I wanted to—-which I don’t.”
“You may be glad to talk before we’re through with you tonight,” threatened Black. “The time for trifling is past. Either give us that signature or else prepare to take the consequences. For the last time, are you going to answer my question?”
“I’ve told you the truth,” Reade insisted. “If you won’t believe me, then there is nothing more to be said.”