XI
There were bands of adhesive tape around the Saint's wrists and ankles, and Peter Quentin had been quickly strapped up in the same way at the same time. Now they were working on Hoppy Uniatz, after first depriving him of the whisky bottle which by some irresistible magnetism had gravitated into his hands.
Lasser held the girl until they had finished, and then he pushed her back into an armchair and signed to Borieff to take charge of her. He straightened his coat and picked up her bag and tossed it into her lap but not before he had transferred a heavy sealed envelope from it to his pocket.
"This is really very tiresome of you, my dear," he said heartily. "Now I shall have to make some other arrangements."
"You certainly will," she retorted. "I wouldn't have any more to do with this business of yours for all the money in the world."
He stood manipulating his ear meditatively for a little while.
"No," he said. "No, of course not. No. But it's your own fault. You didn't have to know any more than was good for you. Naturally you would be — um — sentimental, but you ought to have realized that there are serious things in this business. Well, we'll talk about that presently. Now that you're here you'll have to be quiet and behave yourself, because we can't waste any more time."
"Be quiet and behave myself while you torture them, I suppose," she said with bitter directness.
"No. Not necessarily. But they've got to answer my questions. It'll only be their own fault if they're obstinate." He shrugged. "Anyhow, you've no choice. If you don't behave yourself Borieff will have to keep you quiet."
He beamed at her in his stout avuncular way as if he were insisting on giving her an especially extravagant birthday present.