“Good God, sir, we understand.”
Cub Sterling was upon his feet and towering over MacArthur. Mattus’ manner dropped from him and he became almost a schoolboy in his shyness.
“Of course we do,” he affirmed.
Bear Sterling stirred in his sleep and awoke. His steel-gray eyes were softened by the coming dawn. All three men turned to him. His eyes became pin points.
“Any news?”
“Not yet.”
“Wish Heddis hadn’t gone to that damn convention.”
“I’ve telegraphed for him. Could that sleeping potion have been administered hypodermically?” MacArthur’s voice was thin and old.
“Improbable. The order was for capsule,” Cub Sterling snapped.
“Then that puncture was from....” Mattus’ voice slid into the opening each man’s brain had already made.