“Pheugh! Seven––thousand––dollars! Coming up, eh? This must be the price of suicide or a murder, Graham.”
The Mayor frowned, but he held rein on his temper.
“That’s for a little piece of paper in cipher. It is more than you’ll save all your life.”
Phil put the three cheques neatly together, folded them up and went over to the furnace. He placed them between some glowing coals and pushed them home with a bar of iron.
He swung round just in time, for Brenchfield was almost on him.
The latter grinned viciously for a moment, then let his clenched hands drop to his sides.
“I can make or break you; and, by heavens! you’ve made your own choice. I’ll break you till you squeal,––then there will be no ten thousand dollars. It will be get out and be-damned to you.”
“Go to it,” replied Phil easily, “it’s your move.”
Brenchfield walked to the door.
“Come out and have a look at my horse!” he shouted over his shoulder. “She wants shoeing all round.”