Sharkey sat down as ordered.
“Hell, you can have your five thousand dollars right enough,” he said, pulling the wallet from his pocket.
“No, my friend. I did not bring you here to rob you. I am out on parole, and I never break my word. I am Pierre Luzon!” He spoke the name with triumphant pride.
“Good God!” exclaimed Sharkey, in dumfounded surprise. “You belonged to the White Wolf’s gang?”
“I belong now to ze gang. Ze White Wolf is alive!”
Leach Sharkey had looked sick before, but a ghastly grey pallor came into his face now.
“Then he has got hold of Ben Thurston—at last?” he faltered.
“Yes, at last,” replied Pierre, with a grim smile of joy. “Don Manuel and Ben Thurston are alone on Comanche Point just now. Zey will settle old scores—zat is zeir affair. Now, I attend to my affair.”
Sharkey looked up enquiringly, but said no more.
“Leach Sharkey,” continued the old Frenchman, “you are one strong man. You will now take ze handcuffs from your pocket—I know you carry zem—and drop zem over your shoulder. Zere, zat is right. I am glad you obey wizout giving me any further trouble. Now, you will hold out your hands, behind your back—you know exactly how.”