"Sure," he said smilingly, and picked up the matchbox lying on his
table.

He struck a match and held it while the other obtained the required
light. Then he passed round the desk to the seat he had originally
occupied.

Idepski leant back in his chair, and luxuriated in a deep inhalation of
smoke. Bat watched him from his place at the window. Standing placed the
revolver and sheath knife he had taken possession of in a drawer in the
desk, and closed it carefully.

"Well, what's the play?" Idepski addressed himself solely to Standing.
"I guess you've said a deal calculated to rile, and your pardner's done
more," he went on. "Still--anyway we're mostly men and not school-kids.
What's the play?"

Standing, too, was leaning back in his chair.

"It's easy," he said, after a moment's thoughtful regard. Suddenly he
drew his chair up to the table, and, leaning forward, folded his arms
upon the littered blotting pad in front of him. "It's seven years since
Hellbeam--blazed the war trail," he said deliberately. "I know he's
persistent. He's angry. And he's the sort of man who doesn't cool down
easily. But it's taken him seven years to locate me here. And during all
that time I've been looking on, watching his every move." He shook his
head. "He's badly served, for all his wealth. He was badly served from
the start. You should never have let me beat you in that first race
across the border. I got away with every cent of the stuff, and--you