“Keep your voice down,” he said. “D’you want the girl to hear everything? You were always a blunderer, Jake.”
“Blunderer be ——” But he nevertheless lowered his tone, for the listeners could distinguish nothing more.
“He’s up to some devil’s work,” Tresler whispered, after making sure they could hear no more. “Danny,” he went on eagerly, “I must slip into the hall and try and hear what’s going on. I must be ready to——Listen! He’s cursing again. Wait here. Not a sound; not a word! There’s going to be trouble.”
And his assertion seemed to have reason enough, for the rancher’s sharp tones were now mingling with the harsher note of the other, and both had raised their voices again. Tresler waited for nothing now. He tiptoed to the door and stood listening. Then he crept silently out into the hall and stole along toward the blind man’s office. He paused as he drew near the open door, and glanced round for some hiding-place whence he could see within. The hall was unlit, and only the faintest light reached it from the office. There was a long, heavy overcoat hanging on the opposite wall, almost directly in front of the door, and he made for it, crossing the hall in the darkest part, and sidling along in the shadow until he reached it. Here he drew it in front of him, so that he only elongated its outline and yet obtained a full view of the room.
Jake was not visible. And Tresler concluded that he was sitting in the chair which he knew to be behind the door. But the blind man was almost directly in front of him. He was seated beside the small window table on which the lamp stood, a safety lamp, especially reserved for his use on account of his blindness. His ruddy eyes were staring in the direction in which Tresler believed Jake to be sitting, and such was the effect of that intent stare that the watching man drew well within his cover, as though he feared the sightless sockets would penetrate his hiding-place.
But even from this vantage ground he found his purpose thwarted. Jake was talking, but his voice was so low that it only reached him in a thick growl which blurred his words into a hazy murmur. Therefore he fixed his attention on the man facing him, watching, and seeking information from his expression and general attitude.
And what he beheld riveted his attention. Whatever control the blind man had over himself—and Tresler had reason to know what wonderful control he had—his expression was quite unguarded now. There was a devilish cruelty in every line in his hard, unyielding features. His sanguinary eyes were burning with a curiously real live light—probably the reflection of the lamp on the table—and his habitually knit brows were scowling to an extent that the eyes beneath them looked like sparks of living fire. And though he was lounging comfortably back in his chair, without energy, without alertness, and one arm was resting on the table at his side, and his outstretched fingers were indolently drumming out a tattoo on the bare wood, his breath was coming short and fast, in a manner that belied his attitude.
Had Tresler only seen behind the door he would have been startled, even alarmed. The inflamed Jake was oblivious to everything but his own purpose. His mind was set on the object of his talk, to the exclusion of all else. Just then he had not the slightest fear of the blind man. There was nothing of the submission about him now that he had displayed once before in Tresler’s presence. It was the spirit he had imbibed that had fortified him for the time. It is probable that Jake, at that moment, had no fear of either man or devil.
And, though Tresler could not distinguish a word, his talk was braggart, domineering, and there was a strong flavor of drink in its composition. But even so, there was a relentless purpose in it, too.