There was a choked cry, the thud as
of something dropping on the floor--and then Jimmie Dale spoke.
"Put your hands up over your head!" he breathed grimly--and, as the
other obeyed, his own hand fell away from the man's throat, and in a
quick, deft sweep over the other's clothing located the bulge of a
revolver, and whipped it from the man's pocket. He pushed the man with
his automatic's muzzle back against the wall, closer to the
electric-light switch. Was it Reddy Mull--or English Dick? And then
Jimmie Dale laughed low, unpleasantly, as he switched on the light. He
was staring into a face that was white and colourless--the face of a man
with a heavy black moustache, and whose slouch hat was jammed far down
over his eyes. The process of elimination made it very simple--it was
English Dick.
The man blinked, and wet his lips with his tongue, and at sight of
Jimmie Dale's mask, perhaps because it suggested a community of
interest, tried to force a smirk.
"What's--what's the game?" he stammered.
"This--to begin with!" said Jimmie Dale grimly--and, stooping, picked up
from the floor a small black satchel, the object that English Dick had
dropped on entering the room.
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