“Not there, my dear friend,” said Frank. “Be kind enough to take the chair to the left.”
“As you like,” said the man, with a shrug of his shoulders.
He sat down; and then, still holding his revolver in his hand, Frank advanced to the table, and sat on the chair the man had first attempted to take.
“This is more comfortable,” said the Frenchman. “It distressed me to see you standing.”
“The ease with which you are distressed over the inconvenience of others does you great credit,” said Merry, with a curl at the corners of his lips. “Now we are seated, you are at liberty to say whatever you have to say.”
“Thank you,” bowed the man, placing his hands on the table before him, and leaning slightly toward Merry.
Frank noticed those hands for the first time. Although the fingers were long, they were also thick and muscular, and there was something about them suggestive of great strength. The man saw Merriwell looking at his hands, and a strange, chilling smile hovered on his face.
“What do you think of them?” he asked.
“Eh? Of what?”
“My hands.”