"Yes," he said. "I discovered it soon after I—discovered you."
Hendrie's eyes were blazing.
"Good," he said. "Then it'll help to embellish the story you'll have to tell him—after he returns from Winnipeg."
"After?" Leyburn started.
Hendrie nodded. But his revolver was still tightly clutched in his hand.
"Perhaps I have a poor estimate of human nature," he said. "Anyway—of yours. I've taken all the chances with you I intend to take. You are going to stop right here—after you've written that order."
"But—if I write this order as you want it, you can't, you've no right——"
"Right?" Hendrie laughed savagely. "Right?" he reiterated scornfully. "We've done with all question of right just now. For the moment I'm the top dog, and until you've complied with all my demands, you can put the question of right out of your mind. There's the paper and ink," he went on, moving away from the desk. "Make out that order—at once."
Leyburn made no attempt to comply. He sat there with his narrow eyes on the man standing threateningly confronting him. He was thinking—thinking rapidly. He was afraid, too. More afraid than he would have admitted. Besides, if he were detained until Frank returned—then what of Calford? What of the railroad strike? What of a thousand and one demands awaiting his attention. It was impossible. He broke into a cold sweat. Then his eyes wandered to the shining barrel of that revolver. He noted the tremendous pressure of muscle in the hand grasping it. There was a storm of passion lying behind that pressure. He raised his eyes to the greenish gray of Hendrie's. To him their expression was surely not sane.
"Write that order!"