"You cur! You filed complaint? When?"
"At seven o'clock this morning. We'll fight that out in the courts. However, that isn't what I came here for at all. I came to ask you a question and one of you two are going to answer before I leave—keep your hand up, and in sight, Lacy; make another move like that and it's liable to be your last. I am not here in any playful mood, and I know your style. Lay that gun on the desk where I can see it—that's right. Now move your chair back."
Lacy did this with no good grace, his face purple with passion. Westcott had been too quick, too thoroughly prepared for him, but he would watch his opportunity. He could afford to wait, knowing the cards he had up his sleeve.
"Some considerable gun-play just to ask a question," he said tauntingly, "must be mighty important. All right, what is it?"
"Where did your man Moore take Miss Donovan last night?"
CHAPTER XXI: THE MARSHAL PLAYS A HAND
Neither man had anticipated this; neither had the slightest conception that any suspicion of this kind pointed at them. The direct question was like the sudden explosion of a bomb. What did Westcott know? How had he discovered their participation in the affair? The fact that Westcott unhesitatingly connected Matt Moore with the abduction was in itself alone sufficient evidence that he based his inquiry on actual knowledge. Enright had totally lost power of speech, positive terror plainly depicted in his eyes, but Lacy belonged to another class of the genus homo. He was a Western type, prepared to bluff to the end. His first start of surprise ended in a sarcastic smile.
"You have rather got the better of me, Westcott," he said, shrugging his shoulders, as though dismissing the subject. "You refer to the New York newspaper woman?"
"I do—Miss Stella Donovan."
"I have not the pleasure of that lady's acquaintance, but Timmons informed me this morning that she had taken the late train last night for the East—isn't that true, Enright?"