'Well, Guthrie,' inquired Forster, 'what have you to report?'
The man who had joined Clifford Forster made a striking contrast to the bulky mine owner.
Lawrence Guthrie was a cadaverous individual, who looked much older than he actually was. His face was long and shrewd, his hair was thin; his eyes stared sharply and cunningly.
Now, he was looking at Forster with the evident intent of learning why the mine owner had made this surprise trip to New York.
'I got your wire,' said Guthrie, in a quick, nervous voice. 'I have come here as you told me; but I do not understand why you needed to see me. Matters have been going well enough.'
'Well enough to suit you, perhaps,' growled Forster, 'but not well enough to suit me!'
'Why not?'
'Look here, Guthrie,' declared Forster, in a direct tone, 'we might as well have a show-down right now!
I'm going to start right from the beginning.'
He reached in his pocket, withdrew a parcel of folded papers, and spread them on the table.
'Here's everything,' he said. 'Your agreement, Partridge's agreement, a list of expenditures, everything that pertains to our transactions. So if there's any argument, we've got it in black and white. You understand?'
Guthrie looked puzzled.
'I—I don't understand -'
Clifford Forster interrupted the weak protest.
'You will understand!' he affirmed. 'I'm looking into matters, coolly and impartially. You do the listening while I do the talking. Then I'll hear from you.'
GUTHRIE was silent as Forster examined the documents before him. A worried expression came over the cadaverous man's brow. Nevertheless, he kept his silence and waited.
'We'll start with the beginning,' declared Forster. 'You are a promoter, Guthrie, and a good one.
Somehow, you uncovered Lucien Partridge, who wanted to be financed in the making of synthetic gold.
You aroused my interest. I met Partridge. I took a chance. I put up the money.'
'That's right,' agreed Guthrie.
Another pause followed. Forster was looking at the papers. Guthrie was staring at Forster. Neither man noticed an almost imperceptible motion of a window shade at the side of the room.
A long, flat shadow began to project itself across the floor, almost to the table across which Guthrie was facing Forster.
'I saw a way to make millions,' continued Forster, 'and I promised you your share. The terms were satisfactory to both of us. I waited while the old man got things working.
'I felt good when the first lot of gold landed at the New Era Mine a few months ago. That was the beginning. I looked to you and Partridge to keep it up.'
'Which we have,' said Guthrie.
'Yes,' retorted Forster coldly. 'You have—in dribbles! With those dribbles, you have given promises.
Double the output—double that again—but you haven't done it. Why not?'
Guthrie chewed his lips.
'It's Partridge's fault,' he said. 'He's the one that's making the gold. I don't know anything about it -'
'Passing the buck to Partridge, eh?' questioned Forster. 'That stuff doesn't go, Guthrie. What about your promises?'
'I was telling you what Partridge promised me.'
'Yes? Well, why hasn't Partridge produced?'
'I thought he was producing. I've stayed away from Westbrook Falls, like I told you I would. The shipments go out from there. It would be bad business for me to be hanging around the place -'
'Some one is stalling,' interrupted Forster. 'It's either you or Partridge. I've talked with'—he hesitated quickly—'I've good reason to believe that you're the one to blame.'
Guthrie made no answer to the implication. Slumped in his chair, he was the figure of dejection. His attitude might have been that of a guilty party; on the contrary it might have indicated an innocent man faced by unjust accusations.
'I've dealt squarely with you, Guthrie,' said Forster. 'Maybe I've been too much on the level. I told you from the start that this synthetic gold business would have to be handled quietly. If we told the public we were manufacturing gold, the gold market would take a drop. That's why I'm planting the yellow stuff in the New Era Mine.
'Now that I'm in the racket, I'm going the whole way. The New Era can't last indefinitely. It would excite suspicion. That's why I'm going to sell out —and start planting gold in the Procyon Mine instead of the New Era.
'After that'—Forster shrugged his shoulders—'well, why go on further? You know the game, because I let you in on it. Now it looks like you're trying to start a racket of your own.'
'No! I'm playing square!' protested Guthrie. 'I want to see your plans work. The more gold you get from Partridge, the bigger the cut I get -'
'Yes?' Forster's interruption was cold. 'But suppose you are double-crossing me? Suppose you are holding out some of the gold Partridge is producing?'
'Maybe Partridge is holding out on you. I'm not.'
'Partridge?' Forster's question was disdainful. 'The value of gold means nothing to him. He's contented, now that he is established. I know your past, Guthrie; that's what makes me leery; and it puts me in a position where I can dictate.
'You've always been out for all you can get. A slick promoter, looking for easy money. Well'—Forster's pudgy lips hardened—'for once you're trying to bleed the wrong man!'
LAWRENCE GUTHRIE leaped angrily to his feet. He shook his fist at Clifford Forster, and shouted his reply to the other man's accusation.
'I'm no double-crosser!' he cried. 'I'm in the middle—between you and Partridge. He's eccentric; I've got to handle him sensibly. Instead of giving me a chance, you—you -'
Leaning forward across the table, Guthrie hurled a series of loud expletives at Forster. The mine owner, his own face aglow with fury, leaped up to meet the challenge. In his haste he overturned the chair in which he had been seated.
As Guthrie still mouthed curses, Forster shot across the table and swung a futile blow. For a moment, he and Guthrie were locked in ferocious struggle; then Guthrie shoved Forster away. The bulky man caught himself at the edge of the table and stood glowering fiercely.
Guthrie, rapidly calming, was chewing his lips as though regretting what he had said. He knew that Forster held a whip hand over him; that he had made a mistake in losing his temper. He saw Forster half leaning against the edge of the table, panting heavily.
'There's no use fighting about this,' declared Guthrie, in an apologetic tone. 'I guess we're both wrong.
Why not be reasonable about matters -'
Forster, slowly recovering from his exertion, began to move along the edge of the table. He made no threatening gesture toward Guthrie— in fact, Forster seemed almost incapable of such action. But he showed intense antagonism in the glowering look that he directed at the visitor.
'You—you'—Forster's voice was filled with growling rage— 'you're trying to crawl out of it now, eh?
We'll see about that— we'll see -'
Forster began to pick up the papers that lay on the desk. His hands fumbled. The documents eluded his grasp. Still staring at Guthrie, Forster kept on in his vain attempt.
Suddenly his hands seemed to become rigid; his arms lost their strength. He sank upon his elbows, and stared with bulging eyes toward his hands.
'What—what is happening?' he exclaimed, in a frightened voice. 'My hands —my arms -'
He stared at Guthrie, and his voice rose to a wild scream as he saw the other man's pale face.
'You've crippled me!' screamed Forster. 'I'm paralyzed! My hands— my arms —my shoulders! This is your
