The Saint smiled.
"By no manner of means," he said. "Only I should rather like to take charge of the interview myself at this point — if you don't mind."
He stepped aside and backwards, and took hold of Pietri by the ear. The movement was so improbable and unexpected that it was completed before either Bravache or Dumaire could reorient their wits sufficiently to do anything about it. And by that time Pietri was securely held, like a writhing urchin in the grip of an old-fashioned schoolmarm, so that his body was between the Saint and Bravache, who was still trying to make up his mind whether to grab for the automatic which he had confidently left lying on the table a yard away.
Bravache's poise broke for a moment.
"Use your gun, you fool!" he thundered.
"He can't," said the Saint. "You tell them why, Sam."
An extra turn on the piece of gristle he was holding made his victim squeak like a mouse.
"There's nothing in it," wailed Pietri, with the revolver quivering futilely in his grasp. "They caught me outside — him and two other fellows—"
Bravache started to move then, and Simon's voice ripped out like a lash.
"I wouldn't," he said. "Really I wouldn't. It's dangerous."