want to. You see--Pete----" He paused again and
blinked pensively at his glass. "Well, you see--in a manner of
speakin'--he's got it on me too."

And Peter listened while his villainous companion related the well known
tale of the terrible compact between the two men in which both of them
had agreed in writing to share the guilt of the crime, carefully
omitting to state the compulsion as used upon McGuire. Hawk Kennedy
lied. If Peter had ever needed any further proof of the honesty of his
employer he read it in the shifting eye and uncertain verbiage of his
guest, whose tongue now wagged loosely while he talked of the two
papers, one of which was in McGuire's possession, the other in his own.
Hawk was no pleasant companion for an evening's entertainment. From the
interesting adventurer of the _Bermudian_, Jim Coast had been slowly
changing under Peter's eyes into a personality more formidable and
sinister. And the drink seemed to be bringing into importance
potentialities for evil at which Peter had only guessed. That he meant
to fight to the last ditch for the money was clear, and if the worst
came would even confess, dragging McGuire down among the ruins of both
their lives. In his drunken condition it would have been ridiculously
easy for Peter to have overpowered him, but he was not sure to what end
that would lead.

"You say there were two papers," said Peter. "Where are they?"

"McGuire's got his--here at Black Rock," muttered Hawk.

"How do you know that?" asked Peter with interest.

"Where would he keep it?" sneered Hawk. "In his business papers for
'zecutors to look over?"

"And where's yours?" asked Peter.

He hoped for some motion of Kennedy's fingers to betray its whereabouts,
but the man only poured out another drink and leered at Peter
unpleasantly.

"That'sh _my_ business," he said with a sneer.

"Oh. Is it? I thought I was to have a hand in this."

Kennedy grinned.

"Y'are. Your job is t' get other paper from McGuire's safe. And then
we'll have fortune in--hic--nutshell."

The man wasn't as drunk as he seemed. Peter shrugged.

"I see. I've got to turn burglar to join your little criminal society.
Suppose I refuse?"

"Y' won't. Why, Pete, it ought to be easiest job in world. A few dropsh
in glass when you're talkin' business and he'd never know it happened.
Then we 'beat it,' y'understand, 'n' write lettersh--nice lettersh. One
of 'em to that swell daughter of his. That would do the bus