“Hello!” he snapped presently, in a hard, tense voice. “That you, Martin? This is Hooker. Now, listen to what I’m saying: I want you to come up here immediately. Understand? I want you to keep an eye on Nash, and see that he doesn’t try to get away from the camp. I’m holding you directly responsible. You must not let him out of your sight until you hear from me. Get that? And if it comes to a show-down—well, you know what to do. Remember all of that?”
The response must have been satisfactory, because Hooker immediately hung up the receiver and turned a relieved face toward the other occupant of the room.
“Now I’ll explain,” he said.
CHAPTER XI.
THE CRISIS.
The two men, secure in the big, lamp-lighted room, stared expectantly into one another’s eyes. Hooker was trembling, his face white, despite the tan. He attempted to roll a cigarette before beginning, but his fingers refused to obey. The other man appeared to be more annoyed than otherwise.
“Do you insist that you never before saw that man who was with me to-night?” the foreman asked.
“Never.”
“Then how did he happen to have a letter, signed by you, asking that I give him a position?”
“A letter from me?” The other man—it was Jim Sigsbee himself—allowed a frown to creep between his eyes.