“Suicide? Me? Not on your life!”
The other did not move away. “Well?” he asked. “Do you want an extradition order?”
“I'll come. Got to. Handcuffs, I suppose?” His voice was suddenly weary.
Pointer did not reply. He never permitted himself to have any emotion towards a prisoner, but he felt sure that O'Connor would have been sorry for the chap in front of him. He cut the strings of the package on the table. Mr. Beale pressed forward.
“Ah, ha! Electrical plant. Something new in the safe-breaking line, eh, Green?”
Carter bared two rows of strong teeth. He did not look pleasant. The Englishman was conscious of an undertone as of a secret duel going on. Was it merely that the Editor had run the criminal to earth, who for so long had evaded justice, and evidently on some occasion tricked him? He looked as keenly at Mr. Beale as at Carter. The Editor's eyes were alight with triumph. Carter watched him dully, looking years older than the young man who had flung the door open. He strolled over to the window, and Pointer tensed himself, but Carter merely shot out a long, thin hand and pulled the curtain across the shut half.
Mr. Beale, with a wonderfully agile spring—all things considered—switched it back.
“No signalling to your accomplices, Green!”
Carter swore at him, and swore strongly.
“Come, come,” the Chief Inspector interposed sternly, “none of that! Mr. Beale, may I trouble you to call up my man who's down below; and where would you like me to meet you afterwards?”