Jacobs, plainly nervous, obeyed the super’s orders.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“You know, I suppose, that McGowan is determined to find out what becomes of the bullion he has been losing.”
“It is but natural,” returned Jacobs, drumming on the chair-arms with his fingers.
Significant glances passed between himself and Bernritter.
“You’re running out a bar of cyanid bullion this morning, aren’t you?” queried Bernritter.
“Yes,” answered Jacobs, wondering why the super had so abruptly mentioned the cyanid bullion.
“Is the bar out of the mold? Is it cool enough to handle?”
“It is. Why?”
“I’ll tell you in a moment. Just now there is a bit of quick work for you to do. I am expecting McGowan back from Phœnix at any moment, and I am expecting that Dutchman, who has been in camp for the last few days, to pull out as soon as he can break away from Frieda. What I want you to do, Jacobs, is to take that bar of cyanid bullion and put it in the Dutchman’s saddle-bags!”