Blount left his chair and began to pace the floor, with Gryson watching him furtively.  At any time earlier in the struggle the thought of using this wretched time-server as a means to any end, however desirable and just, would have been nauseating.  True, if there could be any such thing as honor among thieves, the man had earned the price of his crooked work among the registration clerks; but for another man to profit by the broken bargain, and by the confessed criminal’s rage and lust for vengeance, was a thing to make even a hard-pressed loser in an unequal battle hesitate.

The hesitation was only momentary.  With a gesture which was more expressive than many words, Blount turned short upon the furtive watcher in the chair at the desk end.

“What do you want me to do?” he demanded.

“You’re on before I could stall it f’r you.  You’ve been swearin’ you’d back th’ square deal to th’ limit; it ain’t square; it’s crooked as hell.  Grab f’r this knife I’m handin’ you and cut the heart out o’ these welshin’ bosses that are givin’ you th’ double-cross the same as they’re givin’ it to me.  You’re the on’y man that can do it; the on’y man on Gawd’s green earth they’re afraid of.  I know it damn’ well.  That’s why they handed my number to th’ chief and passed th’ word to have me pinched.  They was afraid I’d come here and squeal to you!”

Blount stopped him with an impatient gesture.  “Let that part of it rest and get down to business.  What you have been telling me may be true, but I can’t do anything on your bare word—­the word of a man who is dodging the police.  You’ve got to bring me proofs in black and white; lists of the faked names, and a straight-out give-away of how they are to be used; names and dates, and a written story of your bargainings with the men higher up.  This is Thursday; to be of any use, these documents would have to be in my hands by Saturday noon, at the latest.  You know best whether the thing can be done in time—­or done at all.  What do you say?”

For a little time Gryson said nothing.  When he spoke it was evident that the lust for vengeance and a guilty conscience were fighting an even-handed battle.

“I could get the affidavits—­maybe,” he said.  “There’s a dozen ’r more of the cullies down-along got their notice to fade away when I got mine, and they’d jump at th’ chance to get back at the bosses.  But f’r Gawd’s sake, look at what it means to me!  Anny minute I’m on the job I’d be lookin’ to see some bull with a star on ‘im holdin’ a gun on me; and after that, it’s this f’r mine”—­with a jerk of the head and a pantomimic gesture simulating the hangman’s knot under his ear.

“That is your risk,” said Blount coldly, making this small concession to the expiring sense of uprightness.  “You know how badly you want to ’get square,’ as you put it, and I am interested only in the results.  If you get caught, I sha’n’t turn my hand over to help you—­you can take that straight.  But if you show up here with the proofs, proofs that I can use, any time before Saturday night, I’ll undertake to see that you get safely out of the State.”