"It's not a question of your intentions, but of our intentions," I said grimly. "Do you smell kerosene?"
"Y—y—yes," said Driver.
"And do you see those demijohns?"
"Yes."
"Well, we're going to tie you to the sofa, pour kerosene over you till you and the sofa and the floor are soaking with it and burn you and the house altogether. It's insured."
"You never would!" cried Honest John Driver, and his voice rose to a screech.
We all laughed together the fiendish laugh of a villain of melodrama.
"Wouldn't we?" I said, and the others rose.
I took from the corner a coil of stout rope, and said: "You will be dead before this rope is burnt through. A painful death, but quick."
Bottiger and Chelubai laid him flat on the sofa.
"Gentlemen! Gentlemen! Stop, stop!" he screamed. "I will pay up! I always meant to pay up!"
"Yes, yes," I said impatiently; "we know all about stumers." And I uncoiled the rope.
"No, no; I'll give you an open check, and stay here till it's cashed," he yelled, and all his face glistened with sweat.
"He seems to me to be talking," said Chelubai, and we paused and looked at one another.
