"I wonder," murmured Clay aloud.
"What's that?" snapped Bromfield.
"I was just figurin' on what would happen if you got sick and couldn't attend that annual meeting this afternoon," drawled the Westerner. "I reckon mebbe some of the stockholders you've got lined up would break away and join Whitford."
The New Yorker felt a vague alarm. What idea did this fellow have in the back of his head. Did he intend to do bodily violence to him? Without any delay Bromfield reached for the telephone.
The large brown hand of the Westerner closed over his.
"I'm talkin' to you, Mr. Bromfield. It's not polite for you to start 'phoning, not even to the police, whilst we're still engaged in conversation."
"Don't you try to interfere with me," said the man who paid the telephone bill. "I'll not submit to such an indignity."
"I'm not the only one that interferes. You fixed up quite an entertainment for me the other night, didn't you? Wouldn't you kinda call that interferin' some? I sure ought to comb yore hair for it."
Bromfield made a hasty decision to get out. He started for the door.
Clay traveled in that direction too. They arrived simultaneously.
Clarendon backed away. The Arizonan locked the door and pocketed the
key.
His host grew weakly violent. From Whitford he had heard a story about two men in a locked room that did not reassure him now. One of the men had been this cattleman. The other—well, he had suffered. "Let me out! I'll not stand this! You can't bully me!" he cried shrilly.