“Well, I’m waiting to hear why you have come to see me,” he said coldly. “Please be as brief as you can, for I can only spare you five minutes.”
Max assumed an air of injured innocence.
“What an ungrateful world it is!” he remarked, with a sigh. “Surely, I deserve a more cordial reception than this, considering the fact that only about twelve hours ago I saved you from arrest and ruin.”
Atherton gave a perceptible start.
“What do you mean?” he asked quickly.
“I mean,” was the reply, “that it was I who fired that bullet which smashed Francis Massey’s wrist, and enabled you and your friends to escape.”
His host jumped to his feet and planted himself in front of Max.
“Is that true?” he demanded.
The waiter nodded.
“I was crouching outside the study window,” he ex[Pg 19]plained, “when Massey burst into the room and covered you with his revolver. I slipped my own gun under the curtain, and drew a bead on him.”