“It’s about that trip of yours on the ‘Majestic.’”
Peter looked bewildered.
“We’ve got sworn affidavits of two stewards,” Curlew continued, “about yours and some one else’s goings on. I guess Mr. and Mrs. Rivington won’t thank you for having them printed.”
Instantly came a cry of fright, and the crack of a revolver, which brought Peter’s partners and the clerks crowding into the room. It was to find Curlew lying back on the desk, held there by Peter with one hand, while his other, clasping the heavy glass inkstand, was swung aloft. There was a look on Peter’s face that did not become it. An insurance company would not have considered Curlew’s life at that moment a fair risk.
But when Peter’s arm descended it did so gently, put the inkstand back on the desk, and taking a pocket-handkerchief wiped a splash of ink from the hand that had a moment before been throttling Curlew. That worthy struggled up from his back-breaking attitude and the few parts of his face not drenched with ink, were very white, while his hands trembled more than had Peter’s a moment before.
“Peter!” cried Ogden. “What is it?”
“I lost my temper for a moment,” said Peter.
“But who fired that shot?”
Peter turned to the clerks. “Leave the room,” he said, “all of you. And keep this to yourselves. I don’t think the other floors could have heard anything through the fire-proof brick, but if any one comes, refer them to me.” As the office cleared, Peter turned to his partners and said: “Mr. Curlew came here with a message which he thought needed the protection of a revolver. He judged rightly, it seems.”
“Are you hit?”