“Oh, I see; in love, hey—­with her, or her money?”

“With neither so far as I know,” frankly.  “She is a woman helpless in your hands; that is sufficient.”

“But, hell, she hasn’t any use for you—­didn’t she tell you so?”

“Quite plainly—­yes.  But that is no excuse for any man to play the coward.  I am not afraid of you, Hobart, or your gang.  You got me before by treachery; I was not looking for trouble.  But now I am.  I am going through that door, and if you try to stop me you are going to get hurt.”

The fellow grinned, one hand thrust into the outer pocket of his coat, his eyes narrowed into ugly slits.

“You think so!  You haven’t a weapon on you, West, and if you take a step, I’ll put you out of commission.  I know how to handle your kind, you big bluffer.  What I want to know is what you have got in your head, for, believe me, I don’t take any stock in this woman stuff.  Are you after the coin?”

“What coin?”

“Well, maybe a slice of old Coolidge’s boodle.  There’s enough of it for all hands to have a dip.  How does that hit you?”

“Sounds interesting at least,” admitted West, so earnestly as to attract the other’s attention.  “But let’s talk it over among ourselves—­who is listening there?”

Hobart glanced behind at the nearly closed door.  It was for only a second he was off guard, yet that was enough.  With one leap forward, West struck, his clinched fist smashing against the side of the fellow’s jaw.  It was a wicked, vicious blow, with all the propelling force of the body behind it, and Hobart went down stunned, crashing the door tightly shut as he fell.  Once he strove blindly to reach his feet, tugging madly at the weapon in his pocket, but West, feeling no mercy, and wide awake to the fact that any shooting would mean a call for help, struck again, sending his groggy opponent flat, and unconscious.  It was all the swift work of a minute, and there had been no noise to arouse alarm.  Hobart had not even cried out; the only audible sounds being the sharp click of the door, and the dull thud of a falling body.

West emptied the man’s pockets, slipping two revolvers into his own; then stood for an instant motionless, staring down into the white upturned face.  He had followed the impulse of the moment; had struck savagely; knowing it was his only chance.  Thus far he had done well; but what next?  He was conscious of but one thought, one purpose—­to escape from this house, unpledged and still free to act.  Yet how could this be accomplished?  He had no plan, no knowledge even of his surroundings, of what lay beyond the walls of this room.  His eyes swept the bare interior, seeing nothing to inspire hope.  Hobart had said this room was practically a prison, and it looked it—­the walls bare, and unbroken, and a rough single cot.  All possibility of egress lay in the closed door, and a narrow window high up in the opposite wall, also tightly shut, and shaded by a heavy curtain.