“Very clever and effective,” he murmured slowly, exhaling a whiff of smoke. “Plainly no one’s ever going to catch you napping. It happens, though, that I had no idea of playing the holdup game. I wished merely to hand you a check for the amount of that note and interest, and cancel it. Would you mind turning that barrel just a trifle to one side? Accidents will happen, you know, and your staff here seems quite able to cope with the situation alone.” A single momentary flash of incredulous anger ripped across Crane’s impassive countenance. Then the mask fell again, and, lowering the revolver, he bent forward. “You certainly don’t expect me to accept a personal check of yours for that amount, do you?” he inquired coldly. “Not quite,” smiled Bainbridge. “Knowing your skeptical nature, I took the trouble to have it certified.” He drew out his bill case, and, taking from it a narrow slip of paper, laid it before Crane. Silence followed--tense, vibrating with something of the sense of that bitter, baffled fury which was rending the older man as he stared at the scrap of paper that was depriving him of his revenge. It was the equivalent of currency. He could not refuse to take it. The amount was correct to the last cent. The whole transaction was one in which even his cunning could find no flaw. But where had the money come from? He could not believe that any one in Bangor had supplied it. It was impossible that his subordinates could have been so deceived. With swiftly growing fury Crane made a brief note of payment on the back of the paper. His hand trembled. By the time the signature was written his lips were quivering--his face dark. “There!” he rasped harshly, thrusting the note at Bainbridge. “Where you got it I don’t know, but it’ll do you no good. Your best mill’s a total loss. You haven’t sold a foot of lumber in weeks, and you won’t for months to come. Everybody’s bought what they want from us at easy rates. You may think this is a mighty smart move, but I’ll get you in the end!” “I think not!” Bob’s voice had taken on a sudden quality of hardness. His face lost the half-bantering expression of a moment before, and grew coldly stern. It was as if he had all at once wearied of the little drama he had been staging, and was determined to ring down the curtain without delay. “I think not,” he repeated curtly. “Who did you make those biggest sales of cut-rate lumber to, Crane?” There was an underlying significance in his tone which made Crane glance sharply at him from under penthouse brows, and then dismiss the two silent attendants with a gesture. “What business is that of yours?” he demanded. Bainbridge laughed harshly, triumphantly, “What business is it of mine? I’ll tell you.” He bent suddenly forward, gripping the edge of the desk with both hands. His face was slightly flushed; his eyes, fixed intently on Crane, held in their depths a gleam of singularly disconcerting triumph.