He wasn't prepared for the next move. The blonde caller of Nordic dimensions seemed to leap over his desk. One big hand grabbed the lighted cigar and ground it to shreds. The other seized his shirt front.
"You'd like it that way!" he challenged. "Then I'd be penniless, and you could make an easy steal! Nothing doing. I'm not out of the game yet. If I thought I was I'd grab your spindly old neck in my hands and wring it, right now. We'd both go out in grand style."
Sweat popped out on Marshall's forehead. It was hard to tell just how far the young jackanapes would go. Then the wheel chair lurched forward.
"Get back, Thallin," commanded Marshall as a frail hand thrust a flame gun at his caller's middle. "Or I'll tell Alyce to sear you. You're going a little too far with your threats!"
Rufus glanced at the muzzle of the electronic gun, flushed and backed away. The girl, already panting with the exhaustion brought on by excitement and the scant action, let the weapon fall back into her lap. It was hard to think of this shadow of a woman as that young and beautiful society débutante whose pictures had been plastered over all the pleasure bars from Mercury to Pluto. Venus plague strikes without mercy! In less than a year she was but a ghost of that former self.
"Guess I kind of forgot myself," admitted the young man sheepishly. "I sort of owe you an apology, Miss."
"You ought to be jailed," stormed Marshall uncertainly, rising partly to his feet. His big visitor did not cringe.
"You're big and strong," scoffed young Rufus scornfully. "And all puffed up with your own importance. Like a robber baron! Lots of power in your hands, and worlds to tremble at your decisions, but there's some things you're weak at. One thing—"
He looked suggestively at the limp little being in the wheel chair, so pallid and impassive. Her handling of the gun had been almost mechanical and quite without feeling. Marshall swayed, and young Rufus knew he had struck a vital spot.
"Thallin, I'll kill you for that!" he promised brokenly.