"I sent it down to the despatcher's office by Barney."
Blount nodded. The message had not reached him; and its suppression was
doubtless another move in the subtle game.
"You say you couldn't find out what Gryson wanted?" he pressed.
"He--he seemed to be all torn up about something; couldn't say three
words without putting a cuss word in with them. The most I could get out
of him was that somebody was trying to double-cross him."
Blount took a cigar from his pocket and lighted it. He was faint for
lack of food, but he absently mistook the hunger for the tobacco
craving.
"Collins," he said evenly, "you appear to forget at times that you are
working for a man who has had some little experience with unwilling
witnesses in the courts. You are not telling me the truth; or, at least,
you're not telling me all of it. Let's have the part that you are
keeping back."
"The--the last time he was in, he--he did talk a little," faltered the
young man. "He's got something to sell, and he's f-fighting mad at Mr.
Kittredge. He said he was going to throw the gaff into somebody damn'
quick if Mr. Kittredge didn't wipe off the slate and c-come across with
the price."
"That is better," was the brief comment. "Now, then, why did you lie to
me in the first place?"
The stenographer shut his eyes and shrunk lower in his chair, but he
made no reply.
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