"George," said Dick, that afternoon as they were locking up, "if you
don't mind I believe I'll sleep in my old bed in the office to-night."
Udell looked at his helper in astonishment. "What in the world?" he
began; then stopped.
"I can't explain now, but please let me have my way and say nothing
about it to anyone; not even Clara."
"Why sure, old man," said the other heartily; "only I don't know why."
He paused again; then in. an anxious tone, "Dickie, I know it's hard,
and you've been putting up a great fight, but you're not going to let
go now?"
"No, no, it's not that, old man: I'll explain some day." And something
in his face assured his friend that whatever it was that prompted his
strange request, Dick was still master of himself.
Late that night as Udell passed the office on his way home, after
spending the evening with Miss Wilson, he was astonished to see Jim
Whitley entering the building. He stood watching for a moment; then
fearing possible danger for Dick, he ran lightly up the stairs. But
as he reached out to lay his hand on the door latch, he heard a key
turn in the lock and his friend's voice saying, "I thought you would
come." George paused, and then with a shrug of his shoulder, and a
queer smile on his rugged face, turned and went softly down to the
street again.
Dick and his visitor faced each other in the dimly lighted office.
"Well," said Whitley, with an oath, "what do you want?"
"I want you to take your hand out of your pocket first," flashed Dick;
"that gun won't help you any tonight," and a heavy revolver in his own
hand covered Whitley's heart.
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