Foyle had asked him not to intervene, but only to stand by and
await the issue of this final conference. He meant, however, to take a
hand in, if he thought he was needed, and he kept his ear glued to the
door. If he thought Foyle needed him--his fingers were on the handle of
the door.
"Now, hurry up! What do you want with me?" asked Halbeck of his brother.
"Take your time," said ex-Sergeant Foyle, as he drew the blind
three-quarters down, so that they could not be seen from the street.
"I'm in a hurry, I tell you. I've got my plans. I'm going South. I've
only just time to catch the Canadian Pacific three days from now, riding
hard."
"You're not going South, Dorl."
"Where am I going, then?" was the sneering reply. "Not farther than the
Happy Land."
"What the devil's all this? You don't mean you're trying to arrest me
again, after letting me go?"
"You don't need to ask. You're my prisoner. You're my prisoner," he said
in a louder voice--"until you free yourself."
"I'll do that damn quick, then," said the other, his hand flying to his
hip.
"Sit down," was the sharp rejoinder, and a pistol was in his face before
he could draw his own weapon. "Put your gun on the table," Foyle said
quietly.
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