Carleton Lynne seated himself at the desk, drew some sheets of paper toward him, and began to write.
He did not once turn his head to look behind him, although he could, from time to time, hear Red Mike, as the desperado shifted his position, or his legs; and once he heard him strike a match, and presently smelled the odor of tobacco. The fellow had rolled himself a cigarette, evidently; had laid aside the gun long enough to do that.
This, of itself, was promising. The man was relaxing his vigilance possibly.
Lynne wrote on in silence.
He scarcely thought of what he was writing, his thoughts being busy with the exigencies of the moment; and yet he wrote succinctly for all of that, for he was well aware of the fact that he had an educated man to deal with, and one who was more than ordinarily shrewd in his way.
Nevertheless Lynne had no intention of making the promise that had been demanded of him; he was seeking only time to think up a way out of the dilemma in which he was involved.
He wrote slowly—very slowly indeed, killing all the time he could; and after a time the continued uneasy stirring of Red Mike in the chair behind him told him that the man was fast becoming impatient.
“Say, what are you up to, anyway, Lynne?� was the impatient demand that came, after a time. “Do you suppose that I want to spend the balance of the night here?�
Lynne shrugged his shoulders and wrote on, without reply.
“How long is that bloody document going to be?� was the next demand.