And then slowly the fingers opened so
that the wrinkled bit of paper lay in his palm under his eyes. Barbee
ran his tongue back and forth between his dry lips. Steve, staring in
at him through the window, saw in his eyes the two lights, that of
hate, that of covetousness; they burned side by side as a yellow candle
and a red might have done.
Which way would Barbee go? Did Barbee know? Blenham did not; Steve
did not. Suddenly, seeing how the two fires flickered in Barbee's
eyes, Steve cried out within himself:
"It's unfair! It's asking too much of Barbee!"
And aloud, shoving the nose of a Colt .45 through the window-pane which
splintered noisily:
"Hands up there, Blenham! Good boy, Barbee. You've got him, all
right! Watch him while I slip in."
Blenham jumped to his feet, threw out his arms, and cursed savagely.
Then, grown abruptly quiet, he dropped back into his chair, his two big
hands loose about the wallet hidden under them. Steve threw a leg over
the window-sill and came in, his gun ready, his eyes taking stock of
Barbee while they appeared to be for Blenham only. And Barbee, white
now as he had never been until now, shivered, filled his lungs with a
long sigh, and fell back a couple of paces, staring at Steve, at
Blenham, but most of all at the thing in his hand.
"You put it across, Barbee!" cried Steve heartily.
He reached forward and snatched the wallet from Blenham's knee.
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