“The one you brought in here.”
“You told me to unpack it, sorr. It’s upstairs, sorr.”
“Go and get it. Go now––and don’t waste time.”
Gladwin went, determined this time that he must arm himself with some weapon, even if it were one of the rusted old bowie knives of his grandfather that ornamented the wall of his den. He estimated accurately that he would prove a poor weak reed in the hands of that Hercules in evening dress, and while the thought of a knife sickened him, he was impelled to seek one.
As he mounted the stairs the thief strode to the table near the window and gathered up Helen’s opera cloak and handed it to her.
“Now, go quickly,” he urged; “my car is just across the street. There is no time to argue your absurd suspicions.”
“No, I shan’t go,” retorted Helen, accepting the cloak and backing away.
“So you believe that man?” he asked reproachfully.
“I am afraid I do,” she said firmly.