"What did he get?" asked Morello.
"You mean, what's he goin' to get!" cried the girl, with her curt laugh. She did not lower her fire-arm as the newcomer stepped towards the centre of the room.
"Tony," she suddenly called out, "this guy's heeled. Get his gun!"
She herself stepped still closer to Kestner as she spoke, holding her revolver so that it pointed directly at his upper left-hand vest-pocket. On the whole, Kestner saw with dampening spirits, they were two extremely capable and clear-witted individuals.
So capable were they, in fact, that their prisoner stood silent and helpless, with a revolver-barrel within a yard of his heart, while the quick-fingered Neapolitan explored and felt about Kestner's clothing. He emitted a faint grunt of satisfaction as he drew the automatic from its padded hip-pocket.
"What next?" he asked, as he stepped back with the revolver in his hand.
"Pull out that old oak chair, the one with the high back," commanded the girl. "Then get that bunch o' picture-cord from the top shelf there."
Morello did as directed. But the girl, all the while, kept her eyes on Kestner. His sustained air of composure seemed to worry her.
"Now you back up," she commanded, with sudden roughness. "Back up! Right back until you're sittin' in that chair!"
Kestner turned and looked at the heavy fauteuil of carved oak. A suspicion of what their intentions were crept over him.
