lifted my own eyes to the surface of the tarnished mirror behind where
he sat. It reflected the large portrait of the late Judge Henley
hanging on the opposite wall, and--by all the gods!--I thought I saw it
move, settle back into position! I was upon my feet instantly,
swinging aside into a better situation for defense. Perhaps that
seeming movement, swift and elusive, might be a figment of imagination,
a mere trembling of the glass. But I was taking no chances. The very
conception of some hidden peril threatening me from behind awoke the
savage in me instantly. Before Coombs could realize what had occurred
I had the gun muzzle at the side of his head.

"Now answer," I commanded sharply. "Whose orders put you here?"

He choked, shrinking back helpless in the chair.

"By God! you won't always have the drop on me--"

"Well, I have now. Speak up; who is the man?"

His eyes ranged along the wall, an expression in them like that of a
whipped cur.

"Philip Henley," he whispered, so low I scarcely caught the name.

"What!"

"Wal, I told yer," he growled resentfully. "Yer kin believe er not
just as you please, but, so help me, that's the truth. I reckon I
know."