T. X. shrugged his shoulders, and carefully unscrewing the instrument he had employed and replacing it in the case, he returned it to his inside pocket.
“It was at your invitation, my dear Monsieur Kara,” he said suavely. “Of course I knew that you were putting a bluff up on me with the key and that you had no more intention of letting me see the inside of your safe than you had of telling me exactly what happened to John Lexman.”
The shot went home.
The face which was thrust into the Commissioner's was ridged and veined with passion. The lips were turned back to show the big white even teeth, the eyes were narrowed to slits, the jaw thrust out, and almost every semblance of humanity had vanished from his face.
“You—you—” he hissed, and his clawing hands moved suspiciously backward.
“Put up your hands,” said T. X. sharply, “and be damned quick about it!”
In a flash the hands went up, for the revolver which T. X. held was pressed uncomfortably against the third button of the Greek's waistcoat.
“That's not the first time you've been asked to put up your hands, I think,” said T. X. pleasantly.
His own left hand slipped round to Kara's hip pocket. He found something in the shape of a cylinder and drew it out from the pocket. To his surprise it was not a revolver, not even a knife; it looked like a small electric torch, though instead of a bulb and a bull's-eye glass, there was a pepper-box perforation at one end.
He handled it carefully and was about to press the small nickel knob when a strangled cry of horror broke from Kara.