CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
THE WHIP HAND
Spargo, almost irritable from desire to get at close grips with the objects of his long journey, shook off Breton's hand with a growl of resentment.
"And how on earth can I waste time guessing?" he exclaimed. "Who is he?"
Breton laughed softly.
"Steady, Spargo, steady!" he said. "It's Myerst—the Safe Deposit man. Myerst!"
Spargo started as if something had bitten him.
"Myerst!" he almost shouted. "Myerst! Good Lord!—why did I never think of him? Myerst! Then"
"I don't know why you should have thought of him," said Breton. "But—he's there."
Spargo took a step towards the cottage; Breton pulled him back.
"Wait!" he said. "We've got to discuss this. I'd better tell you what they're doing."
"What are they doing, then?" demanded Spargo impatiently.
"Well," answered Breton. "They're going through a quantity of papers. The two old gentlemen look very ill and very miserable. Myerst is evidently laying down
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