He moved his hands experimentally. His wrists were only held by a slipknot. If he could drag a little slack out of the rope where it was tied to the ring he might be able to get them free. He wondered why he had been tied so carelessly; and the next moment he knew. As if in answer to a prearranged signal, Rad-don stepped forward and with an effort pushed the rock tied to the Saint's feet off the ledge. It dragged the Saint's legs after it; and the slipknot came tight again instantly as the pull came on it. Simon hung there, excruciatingly stretched out, with only the cord on his wrists to save him from being dragged over the edge.
The Z-Man came closer.
"You know why you are here?" he asked. "You haff interfered with my affairs."
"Considerably," Simon agreed.
In that confined space the light of the torches was reflected from the walls sufficiently to show the men behind them. Besides the Z-Man and Raddon, the third member of the party, as Simon had suspected, was Welmont, of taxicab fame. The two minor Z-Men stood a little behind and to either side of their leader.
The Z-Man put away his torch and took the Saint's own knife out of his pocket.
"You vill tell me how much you know," he said. "Tell me this, my Saint, und your fine looks vill still be yours."
He caressed the knife in his gloved hand and brought it suggestively forward so that the light glinted on the polished blade.
"So we now attempt to make the victim's blood run cold, do we?" said the Saint amusedly, although his joints felt as if they were being torn apart on the rack. "I take it that you're in the mood for one of your celebrated beauty treatments. Why don't you operate on yourself first, laddie? You look as if it would improve you."
"Tell me vot you know!" shouted the Z-Man furiously. "I giff you just one minute."