Orme now remembered that Arima’s car, when approaching, had sounded its horn at regular intervals, in series of threes—evidently a signal.
“Don’t worry, Girl, dear,” whispered Orme. “I—” he broke off his sentence as the newcomers clustered about the tonneau, but the confident glance of her eyes reassured him.
He knew not what they were to face. The Japanese, he inferred, would not deal with him pleasantly, but surely they would not harm the girl.
Arima opened the door of the tonneau and with a lightning motion grasped Orme by the wrist.
“Get out,” he ordered.
Orme was in no mind to obey. There were four of the Orientals against him, and he stood little chance of success in a fight with them, but if he could only delay matters, someone might pass and he could raise an alarm. So he sat firm, and said, calmly:
“What do you want?”
“Get out,” repeated Arima.
When Orme still made no move to leave his seat, the steely fingers on his wrist ran up his forearm and pressed down hard upon a nerve-center. The pain was almost unbearable, and for the moment his arm was paralyzed. A quick jerk brought him to the ground. As he alighted, stumblingly, Maku caught him by the other arm. He was held in such a way that for the moment it seemed futile to struggle. Arima, meantime, spoke rapidly in Japanese to Maku. Perhaps he, as commander of the situation, was giving precise orders as to what was to be done.
Orme looked over his shoulder at the girl. She was clutching the door of the tonneau and leaning forward, staring with horrified eyes.