“That’s now!” bellowed Massey, and leant over and struck the old man.
Jimmy, on his feet, saw the gush of blood and the knife in Massey’s hand, and reached for his pocket.
Massey’s pistol covered him, and the man’s face was a dreadful thing to look upon.
“Hands up! It’s God’s truth I’ll kill you if you don’t!”
Jimmy’s hands went up.
“He’s got the money here,” breathed Massey, “somewhere in this house.”
“You’re mad,” said the other contemptuously. “Why did you hit him?”
“He sat there makin’ a fool of me.” The murderer gave a vicious glance at the inert figure on the floor. “I want something more than his puzzle-talk. He asked for it.”
He backed to the table where the decanter stood, and drank a tumbler half-filled with raw spirit.
“We’re both in this, Jimmy,” he said, still keeping his man covered. “You can put down your hands; no monkey tricks. Give me your pistol.”