A dapper individual, wearing tortoise-rimmed
glasses, with black moustache and goatee, was staring into the muzzle of
Jimmie Dale's automatic.
"Hello, Frenchy!" observed Larry the Bat suavely. "Feelin' faint?"
The man's face had gone a chalky white. He looked wildly around him, as
though seeking some avenue of escape.
"_Mon Dieu_!" he whispered. "Larree ze Bat! It is ze Gray Seal!
It is--"
"Aw, cut out dat parlay-voo dope!" Larry the Bat broke in curtly. "Youse
don't need ter pull dat stuff wid me, Virat. Talk New York, see?"
Virat moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue.
"What do you want here?" he asked huskily.
"Oh, nothin' much," said Larry the Bat airily. "I thought mabbe youse
might figure dere was some of dem bonds comin' ter me."
"Bonds! I don't know anything about any bonds," said Virat, in a low
voice. "I don't know what you are talking about.'
"You don't--eh?" inquired Larry the Bat ominously. "Well den, I'll help
ter put youse wise. But mabbe I'd better get yer gun first, eh?" As he
had done to Meighan, he removed a revolver from Virat's pocket.
"T'anks!" he said. He pushed Virat with his revolver muzzle toward the
table, and forced the other into a chair.
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