“Stamford is a long way from here,” temporized Bill.
“But you have an excellent plane at Parker’s, in Clayton.” Sanders laughed shortly. “This is not a lone hand I’m playing, Bolton. I have an organization behind me, and it is a thoroughly efficient one. What I don’t know about you, and particularly your doings since that youngster Charlie brought you his father’s message, would not be worth writing home about.”
“And if I refuse?” Bill crossed his legs and looked at him with as much insolence as he could command.
“If you refuse, Mister Midshipman Bolton, your friend Charlie, who my men caught up this morning, and the girl, Deborah, will have to take the consequences of your bullheadedness.”
Slowly Bill got to his feet. “So that’s your filthy threat, is it?” he cried. “You hold that over my head. Well, Mr. Zenas Sanders, two can play at your game!” Bill took a step forward, prepared to spring on him.
The man did not move. A smile had come back to his face, and again he gave a quick little nod.
“Look out, Bolton! Don’t do anything foolish!”
Bill followed the direction of his eyes. In the corner of the alcove, appearing between the folds of the curtain, was the long, blue-black barrel of a rifle, and it was pointed at Bill’s breast.
“You see!” sneered Sanders. “It would have paid you to become my friend. You haven’t the option now. Nine o’clock tomorrow night by the latest, at Gring’s Hotel, Bolton—or—you know the rest.”
Sanders slipped behind the curtain out of sight. At the same moment the barrel of the gun disappeared. With a cry, Bill snatched up the automatic from the table where Sanders had overlooked it, and darted into the hall.