“I have one,” Dillon admitted.
“Lock it in a drawer,” said Rohan. “Mind you, sir, I’m not to be held up, and I’m not to hold any one up. I only want a square deal.”
Dillon placed the revolver in a drawer, turning the key and tossing it upon the table. That he anticipated what the proof was to be, despite his pretended ignorance, was betrayed by the eager light in his narrow eyes.
“Now, Mr. Rohan, come to the point,” said he, settling back in his chair. “Where are your credentials? What proof have you?”
“Proof enough, sir,” said Rohan. “The thing you lost.”
“Have you brought it here?”
“I have, sir.”
“Let me see it.”
Rohan arose and thrust his hands up under the back of his coat. The hump between his shoulders disappeared. He drew out a black leather portfolio and placed it on the table.
“There ’tis, sir,” said he; then added quickly: “But don’t get gay. I’m to take it back when I go, and I’m going to do it. I’ve got a gun, sir, and——”