"The thing is, do I get the girl?"
"Not by any means, except her consent."
"You'll not make her marry me?"
"No. No," replied Sampson, his voice still cold, low-pitched.
"All right. Then I'll make her."
Evidently Sampson understood the man before him so well that he wasted
no more words. I knew what Wright never dreamed of, and that was that
Sampson had a gun somewhere within reach and meant to use it.
Then heavy footsteps sounded outside, tramping upon the porch. I might
have been mistaken, but I believed those footsteps saved Wright's life.
"There they are," said Wright, and he opened the door. Five masked men
entered. About two of them I could not recognize anything familiar. I
thought one had old Snecker's burly shoulders and another Bo Snecker's
stripling shape. I did recognize Blome in spite of his mask, because his
fair skin and hair, his garb and air of distinction made plain his
identity. They all wore coats, hiding any weapons. The big man with
burly shoulders shook hands with Sampson and the others stood back.
The atmosphere of that room had changed. Wright might have been a
nonentity for all he counted. Sampson was another man--a stranger to me.
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