going to answer before I leave--keep
your hand up, and in sight, Lacy; make another move like that and it's
liable to be your last. I am not here in any playful mood, and I know
your style. Lay that gun on the desk where I can see it--that's right.
Now move your chair back."

Lacy did this with no good grace, his face purple with passion.
Westcott had been too quick, too thoroughly prepared for him, but he
would watch his opportunity. He could afford to wait, knowing the
cards he had up his sleeve.

"Some considerable gun-play just to ask a question," he said
tauntingly, "must be mighty important. All right, what is it?"

"Where did your man Moore take Miss Donovan last night?"

CHAPTER XXI: THE MARSHAL PLAYS A HAND

Neither man had anticipated this; neither had the slightest conception
that any suspicion of this kind pointed at them. The direct question
was like the sudden explosion of a bomb. What did Westcott know? How
had he discovered their participation in the affair? The fact that
Westcott unhesitatingly connected Matt Moore with the abduction was in
itself alone sufficient evidence that he based his inquiry on actual
knowledge. Enright had totally lost power of speech, positive terror
plainly depicted in his eyes, but Lacy belonged to another class of the
_genus homo_. He was a Western type, prepared to bluff to the end.
His first start of surprise ended in a sarcastic smile.

"You have rather got the better of me, Westcott," he said, shrugging
his shoulders, as though dismissing the subject. "You refer to the New
York newspaper woman?"

"I do--Miss Stella Donovan."

"I have not the pleasure of that lady's acquaintance, but Timmons
informed me this morning that she had taken the late train last night
for the East--isn't that true, Enright?"

The lawyer managed to nod, but without venturing to remove his gaze
from Westcott's face. The latter never moved, but his eyes seemed to
harden.

"I have had quite enough of that, Lacy," he said sternly, and the
watchful saloon-keeper noted his fingers close more tightly on the butt
of his revolver. "This is no case for an alibi. I know exactly what I
am talking about, and--I am going to have a direct answer, either from
you or Enright.

"This is the situation: I was the man listening at the window of your
shack last night. Moore may, or may not have recognised me, but,
nevertheless, I was the man. I was there long enough to overhear a
la