“It’s merely a business proposition, young man. The stock you have to sell is valuable to-day. Reject my offer, and a month from now it will be quoted on the market at half its present figure, and go begging at that. It will be absolutely worthless before I finish. You are not selling out Ridgway. He is a ruined man, anyway. But you—I am going to save you in spite of yourself. I am going to shake you from that robber’s clutches.”
Eaton got to his feet, pallid and limp as a rag. “Don’t tempt me,” he cried hoarsely. “I tell you I can’t do it, sir.”
Harley’s cold eye did not release him for an instant. “One million dollars and an assured future, or—absolute, utter ruin, complete and final.”
“He would murder me—and he ought to,” groaned the writhing victim.
“No fear of that. I’ll put you where he can’t reach you. Just sign your name to this paper, Mr. Eaton.”
“I didn’t agree. I didn’t say I would.”
“Sign here. Or, wait one moment, till I get witnesses.” Harley touched a bell, and his secretary appeared in the doorway. “Ask Mr. Mott and young Jarvis to step this way.”
Harley held out the pen toward Eaton, looking steadily at him. In a strong man the human eye is a sword among weapons. Eaton quailed. The fingers of the unhappy wretch went out mechanically for the pen. He was sweating terror and remorse, but the essential weakness of the man could not stand out unbacked against the masterful force of this man’s imperious will. He wrote his name in the places directed, and flung down the pen like a child in a rage.
“Now get me out of Montana before Ridgway knows,” he cried brokenly.
“You may leave to-morrow night, Mr. Eaton. You’ll only have to appear in court once personally. We’ll arrange it quietly for to-morrow afternoon. Ridgway won’t know until it is done and you are gone.”