and Markel, terror-stricken, had collapsed in a flabby, pliant heap.
Jimmie Dale, still covering Markel with the weapon, stood up. The frightened faces of women protruded over the banisters above. The two men-servants, at best none too enthusiastically on the way down, stopped as though stunned as Jimmie Dale swung the revolver upon them.
Then Jimmie Dale spoke—to Markel—pointing the weapon at Markel again.
"I don't like you, Markel," he said, with cold impudence. "The only decent thing you'll ever do will be to die—and if those men of yours on the stairs move another step it will be your death warrant. Do you understand? I would suggest that you request them to stay where they are."
Cold sweat was on Markel's face as he stared into the muzzle of the revolver, and his teeth chattered.
"Go back!" he screamed hysterically at the servants. "Go back! Sit down! Don't move! Do what he tells you!"
"Thank you!" said Jimmie Dale grimly. "Now, get up yourself!"
Markel got up.
Jimmie Dale backed to the library door, picked up the cash box, tucked it under his left armpit, and faced those on the stairs.
"Mr. Markel and I are going out for a little walk," he announced coolly. "If one of you make a move or raise an alarm before your master comes back, I shall be obliged, in self-defence, to shoot—Mr. Markel. Mr. Markel quite understands that—I am sure. Do you not, Mr. Markel?"
"Helen," screamed Markel to his wife, "don't let 'em move! For God's sake, do as he says!"
Jimmie Dale's lips, just showing beneath the edge of his mask, broadened in a pleasant little smile.
"Will you lead the way, Mr. Markel?" he requested, with ironic deference. "Through the dining room, please. Yes, that's right!"
Markel walked weakly into the dining room, and Jimmie
