Sharkey showed himself somewhat mollified. He had played his game well, for after all, cash with him was the main consideration. So smiling over the success of his bluff, he watched the unnerved coward as he tottered to his desk, dropped into a chair and drew the check with slow and painful effort, and then returned with it between his still trembling fingers.
“You’ll stand by me, Mr. Sharkey, won’t you?”
“Well, no more of that nonsense,” was the curt reply, as the sleuth glanced at the slip of paper, then thrust it in his waistcoat pocket.
To Thurston the reconciliation brought instant relief. He drew himself up; he rubbed his hands; he even attempted a smile.
“That’s a good fellow, Sharkey. You know I’ve always held you in high esteem. And we’ll get that man yet”—the glare of vindictiveness was again in his eyes, the rasp of accustomed irritability was returning to his voice. “We’ll get him, I say, even if it costs double the money I’ve already spent. And that devil of a girl, too—I hate her more than ever now. She’ll pay for her insults tonight with her lover’s life. Remember, Sharkey, no more chances. When you get the scoundrel within gunshot, it’s up to you to shoot. That will be best in any case. It will save the cost of a judge and jury. You understand me?”
“I understand,” nodded Sharkey. “Then, as you’re speaking about doubling. Mr. Thurston, I suppose that ten-thousand-dollar reward coming to me goes up to twenty thousand.”
“Yes; twenty thousand if you shoot him like a dog, and let me get away from this damned place. I have come to loathe the very name of it. Well, spread your cot now across my door. I’ll try to get an hour’s sleep. Good night.”
And Ben Thurston disappeared into the inner room.