That smile was a study of malignant triumph and conscious power.
"Soh!" he said, between his teeth, and weighing the revolver in his hand with its barrel still pointed to the prostrate man, "soh, you are the ghost, my fine fellow? You are the White Nun who terrifies honest people out of their wits?"
Willie struggled for breath and grinned with daring audacity.
"I give in, captain. Give me a little more breathing room," and he groaned.
The captain smiled, released his prisoner, and, seating himself complacently, with the revolver still conveniently leveled, watched keenly the huge Willie rise, shake himself and draw a long breath of relief.
"Whew!" he breathed, "that's better! You are uncommon strong, captain," he remarked, coolly eying the lithe figure of his conqueror with looks of admiration.
"I am," said the captain. "Stand there. No," he added, quickly, as Willie was about to slip off the white robe and paraphernalia which constituted his disguise. "No, don't take anything off. I may want to shoot you yet, and your costume would explain everything. Stand there—on second thoughts, you may sit down."
Willie Sanderson, with a shrug of his shoulders, threw himself down beside the captain and eyed the ground sullenly and expectantly.
"Now," said the captain, "I must know the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Answer my question straightforwardly and without prevarication, or I——" and he finished up the sentence by glancing at the revolver.
"Stop," said Willie, driven to desperation by the captain's consummate coolness. "I'll tell ye; I suppose I must."