His hand clutched the paper and, with a half slide, he
turned in Mason's arms. For a moment he stared up at the ugly man
whose thin arms felt like wire ropes.
"You are under the dead-fall, aye," said Mason. "The cunning of my
enemy is sublime."
"Your enemy?" gasped Walcott. "When did you come into it? How in
God's name did you know it? How your enemy?"
Mason looked down at the wide bulging eyes of the man.
"Who should know better than I?" he said. "Haven't I broken
through all the traps and plots that she could set?"
"She? She trap you?" The man's voice was full of horror.
"The old schemer," muttered Mason. "The cowardly old schemer, to
strike in the back; but we can beat her. She did not count on my
helping you--I, who know her so well."
Mason's face was red, and his eyes burned. In the midst of it all
he dropped his hands and went over to the fire. Samuel Walcott
arose, panting, and stood looking at Mason, with his hands behind
him on the table. The naturally strong nature and the rigid school
in which the man had been trained presently began to tell.
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