Bromfield stared.  “I beg your pardon?”

“I said it was mine too.  You see I bought a coupla shares of Bird Cage stock yesterday.  I’d hate to see Whitford ousted from control.  I’ve got confidence in him.”

“It’s your privilege to vote that stock this afternoon.  At least it would be if it had been transferred to you on the books.  I’ll vote my stock according to my own views.”

“I wonder,” murmured Clay aloud.

“What’s that?” snapped Bromfield.

“I was just figurin’ on what would happen if you got sick and couldn’t attend that annual meeting this afternoon,” drawled the Westerner.  “I reckon mebbe some of the stockholders you’ve got lined up would break away and join Whitford.”

The New Yorker felt a vague alarm.  What idea did this fellow have in the back of his head.  Did he intend to do bodily violence to him?  Without any delay Bromfield reached for the telephone.

The large brown hand of the Westerner closed over his.

“I’m talkin’ to you, Mr. Bromfield.  It’s not polite for you to start ’phoning, not even to the police, whilst we’re still engaged in conversation.”

“Don’t you try to interfere with me,” said the man who paid the telephone bill.  “I’ll not submit to such an indignity.”

“I’m not the only one that interferes.  You fixed up quite an entertainment for me the other night, didn’t you?  Wouldn’t you kinda call that interferin’ some?  I sure ought to comb yore hair for it.”

Bromfield made a hasty decision to get out.  He started for the door.  Clay traveled in that direction too.  They arrived simultaneously.  Clarendon backed away.  The Arizonan locked the door and pocketed the key.

His host grew weakly violent.  From Whitford he had heard a story about two men in a locked room that did not reassure him now.  One of the men had been this cattleman.  The other—­well, he had suffered.  “Let me out!  I’ll not stand this!  You can’t bully me!” he cried shrilly.

“Don’t pull yore picket-pin, Bromfield,” advised Lindsay.  “I’ve elected myself boss of the rodeo.  What I say goes.  You’ll save yorese’f a heap of worry if you make up yore mind to that right away.”

“What do you want?  What are you trying to do?  I’m not a barroom brawler like Durand.  I don’t intend to fight with you.”

“You’ve ce’tainly relieved my mind,” murmured Clay lazily.  “What’s yore own notion of what I ought to do to you, Bromfield?  You invited me out as a friend and led me into a trap after you had fixed it up.  Wouldn’t a first-class thrashin’ with a hawsswhip be about right?”

Bromfield turned pale.  “I’ve got a weak heart,” he faltered.

“I’ll say you have,” agreed Clay.  “It’s pumpin’ water in place of blood right now, I’ll bet.  Did you ever have a real honest-to-God lickin’ when you was a boy?”

The New Yorker knew he was helpless before this clear-eyed, supple athlete who walked like a god from Olympus.  One can’t lap up half a dozen highballs a day for an indeterminate number of years, without getting flabby, nor can he spend himself in feeble dissipations and have reserves of strength to call upon when needed.  The tongue went dry in his mouth.  He began to swallow his Adam’s apple.