and was apparently studying the faded map of the Caribbean. The position was perilous.
"Where do I sign?" demanded McKinnon, bringing the other man back to his side at the table.
The ink was scarcely dry on the paper before a change crept into Duffy's manner. He seemed more sure of himself, more conscious of mastery over an ally, who, if a reluctant one, was still an ally.
He folded the receipt and dropped it into his leather wallet. Then he placed the wallet in his breast pocket; his movements were always ponderous and deliberative.
"Remember, this means a devil of a lot to me. I'll have to depend on you to do the right thing when the time comes."
"It's not that bad, is it?" the operator asked, still with an effort at humour.
"It may be as bad as either of us could imagine," Duffy retorted.
"If that's the way it's shaping I'd better draw out of it."
McKinnon seemed more and more resentful of the other's attitude of masterfulness.
Duffy slowly tapped the pocket which held his wallet.
"It's too late for you to draw out of it," he
