Late that night as Udell passed the office on his way home, after spending the evening with Miss Wilson, he was astonished to see Jim Whitley entering the building. He stood watching for a moment; then fearing possible danger for Dick, he ran lightly up the stairs. But as he reached out to lay his hand on the door latch, he heard a key turn in the lock and his friend's voice saying, "I thought you would come." George paused, and then with a shrug of his shoulder, and a queer smile on his rugged face, turned and went softly down to the street again.
Dick and his visitor faced each other in the dimly lighted office.
"Well," said Whitley, with an oath, "what do you want?"
"I want you to take your hand out of your pocket first," flashed Dick; "that gun won't help you any tonight," and a heavy revolver in his own hand covered Whitley's heart.
His request was granted instantly.
"Now walk into the other room."
They passed into the stock room, which was well lighted. The windows were covered with heavy paper; the long table was cleared and moved out from its place near the wall.
Dick closed the door and pointed to the table. "Lay your gun there. Be careful," as Whitley drew his revolver. Jim glanced once at the determined eyes and steady hand of his master and sullenly obeyed.
"Now sit down."
Crossing the room, he seated himself in the chair indicated, which placed him in the full glare of the light. Dick took the other chair facing him, with the long table between them. Placing his weapon beside the other, within easy reach of his hand, he rested his elbows on the table and looked long and steadily at the man before him.