Retief took no chances.  Lablache, under pistol compulsion, was forced to remain motionless in his chair.  The swarthy Breed backed cautiously to the door until his hand rested upon the spring catch.  This, with deft fingers, he turned and then forced back, and the next moment he was joined by two companions as dark as himself and likewise dressed in the picturesque garb of the prairie “hustler.”  The money-lender, in spite of his predicament, was keenly alert, and lost no detail of the new-comers’ appearance.  He took a careful mental photograph of each of the men, trusting that he might find the same useful in the future.  He wondered what the next move would be.  He eyed the Breed’s pistol furtively, and thought of his own weapon lying on his desk at the corner farthest from him.  He knew there was no possible chance of reaching it.  The slightest unbidden move on his part would mean instant death.  He understood, only too well, how lightly human, life was held by these people.  Implicit obedience alone could save him.  In those few thrilling moments he had still time to realize the clever way in which both he and Horrocks had been duped.  He had never for a moment believed in Gautier’s story, but had still less dreamed of such a daring outrage as was now being perpetrated.  He had not long to wait for developments.  Directly the two men were inside, and the door was again closed, Retief pointed to the money-lender.

“Hustle, boys—­the rope.  Lash his feet.”

One of the men produced an old lariat In a trice the great man’s feet were fast.

“His hands?” said one of the men.

“Guess not.  He’s goin’ to write, some.”

Lablache instantly thought of his cheque-book.  But Retief had no fancy for what he considered was useless paper.

The hustler stepped over to the desk.  His keen eyes spotted the money-lender’s pistol lying upon the far corner of it.  He had also noted his prisoner casting furtive glances in the direction of it.  To prevent any mischance he picked the gleaming weapon up and slipped it into his hip pocket.  After that he drew a sheet of foolscap from the stationery case and laid it on the blotting pad.  Then he turned to his comrades.

“Jest help old money-bags over,” he said quietly.  He was thoroughly alert, and as calmly indifferent to the danger of discovery as if he were engaged on the most righteous work.

When Lablache had been hoisted and pushed into position at the desk the raider took up a pen and held it out towards him.

“Write,” he said laconically.

Lablache hesitated.  He looked from the pen to the man’s leveled pistol.  Then he reluctantly took the pen.  The half-breed promptly dictated, and the other wrote.  The compulsion was exasperating, and the great man scrawled with all the pettishness of a child.

The message read—­

“Retief is here.  I am a prisoner.  Follow up with all speed.”