Donovan sighed. Waring was going to quit. That was good. It had been easy enough.
Quigley drafted a check and handed it to Donovan to sign. As the paymaster began to gather up the money on the table, Waring pocketed the check and rose, watching Quigley's nervous hands.
As Quigley tied the sack and picked it up, Waring reached out his arm. "Give it to me," he said quietly. Quigley laughed. Waring's eyes were unreadable.
The smile faded from Quigley's face. Without knowing just why he did it, he relinquished the sack.
Waring turned to Donovan. "I'll take care of this, Bill. As I told you before, you can't bluff worth a damn."
Waring strode to the door. At Quigley's choked exclamation of protest, the gunman whirled round. Donovan stood by the desk, a gun weaving in his hand.
"You ought to know better than to pull a gun on me," said Waring. "Never throw down on a man unless you mean business, Bill."
The door clicked shut.
Donovan stood gazing stupidly at Quigley. "By cripes!" he flamed suddenly. "I'll put Jim Waring where he belongs. He can't run a whizzer like that on me!"
"I'd go slow," said Quigley. "You don't know what kind of a game Waring will play."