CHAPTER SIXTEEN
AS I stood there staring past the head of Wendy Washburn I called out the one word of "Bud!"
But that white-faced man who had come back so suddenly to the world of the living paid scant attention to me. He didn't even look at me.
"Stand up!" he barked out at Wendy Washburn as the latter, startled by my gaping face, twisted interrogatively about in his chair. I noticed that the automatic no longer wavered, but was leveled directly at the other man's head. And the look in Bud Griswold's eyes still frightened me.
"Bud, don't shoot!" I gasped out, as Wendy Washburn rose to his feet and stood with his back against the table. Even then, for all the blind ferocity on his face, I felt sorry for Bud. There seemed something so unreasoning and animal-like about that face. It was childish. It was pathetic. And stronger even than the terror that was tingling through my body was the sudden surge of pity for
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