“All right, McGowan,” answered Bernritter. “Jacobs just came to report that he has a five-pound bar from the cyanid clean-up.”
“Well, for Heaven’s sake, Jacobs, take care of it,” said McGowan.
“I’ll try to, sir,” smiled Jacobs, masking as well as he could the evil in his heart.
He left immediately.
“What luck in Phœnix, McGowan?” asked the super, with great show of interest.
“No luck at all, at all,” grumbled McGowan. “Buffalo Bill won’t help us. He says it’s a job for the sheriff, and that he has other fish to fry.”
Although secretly delighted, Bernritter’s face contrived to express disappointment.
“Did you go to the sheriff?” he asked.
“Fiend take the sheriff!” growled McGowan. “Hasn’t he been out here and tried? What did he accomplish? Not a thing! The sheriff’s no good. If he attempts——”
The door was abruptly hurled open, and Jacobs showed himself. He looked wild and excited.