A curious light
shone in his eyes. There was an ugly flicker of smile on his set mouth.
The reporter rose from the chair into which he had wetly slumped. He
walked over to face his opponent who was standing at his desk. Banneker,
lithe, powerful, tense, was half again as large as the other; obviously
more muscular, better-conditioned, more formidable in every way. But
there is about a man, singly and selflessly intent upon his job in hand,
an inner potency impossible to obstruct. Banneker recognized it;
inwardly admitted, too, the unsoundness of the swift, protective rage
rising within, himself.
"I don't propose to make trouble for you or to have trouble with you,"
said the reporter evenly. "But I'm going to Miss Van Arsdale's unless
I'm shot on the way there."
"That's all right," returned the agent, mastering himself. "I beg your
pardon for threatening you. But you'll have to find your own way. Will
you put up here for the night, again?"
"Thanks. Glad to, if it won't trouble you. See you later."
"Perhaps not. I'm turning in early. I'll leave the shack unlocked for
you."
Gardner opened the outer door and was blown back into the station by an
explosive gust of soaking wind.
"On second thought," said he, "I don't think I'll try to go out there
this evening.
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