Inasmuch as he was a member of the firm that occupied the offices, it might be supposed that he would have had knowledge of any policeman secreted about the premises. But it was plain he had not been informed of the presence of this particular officer.
Hiram McCormick was still on his feet. While the colonel was glaring at the policeman, Mr. McCormick observed calmly:
“Mr. Griggs, we shall have to ask your pardon for the presence of the officer. He slipped in, by my request, before the colonel came, and while you were in the board room.”
“What’s he here for?” inquired Griggs.
“That will appear later. Just now he is going to keep the colonel with us while these young men relieve their minds.”
Colonel Billings understood that he was face to face with disaster—a disaster so comprehensive that he could not readily grasp it. Heeding a motion of the officer’s hand, he dropped defiantly into a chair.
“Now, my lad,” said McCormick to the cowboy.
McGlory jumped at once into his recital. Beginning away back in his New York experience, he told of the trouble he and Matt had had on account of the bullion; then, after showing the telegram which had been sent to him over the signature of “Joshua Griggs,” he began narrating the adventures which had fallen to him and Matt on that eventful day. The colonel’s double-dealing was shown up in all its ugly brazenness, and the cowboy finished by regretting that he had not the private report of Hannibal J. Levitt to offer in evidence.
“Perhaps,” suggested Matt, “the colonel can show it to you, if it has not already been destroyed.”
“The colonel,” spoke up that gentleman witheringly, “is not here to be bossed by a fellow of your stripe. Your wild and woolly stories seem to have made a hit with the representatives of capital, but they’re fakes, and everybody here will know they’re fakes, before many days.”