The man made no reply. He stood, watching his sometime chief, with eyes that did not waver.
“Thought I’d come along and tell you that you’ve got your promotion,” said Elk, “as Acting-Sergeant from the 1st of May, in recognition of the services you’ve rendered to the State by poisoning Frog Mills, loosing Frog Hagn, and blowing up my office with a bomb that you planted overnight.”
Still the man did not speak, nor did he move; and here he was discreet, for the long-barrelled Browning in Elk’s hand covered the lower button of his white piqué waistcoat.
“And now,” said Elk—there was a ring of triumph in his voice—“you’ll take a little walk with me—I want you, Number Seven!”
“Haven’t you made a mistake?” drawled Balder, so unlike his usual voice that Elk was for a moment taken aback.
“I never have made a mistake except about the date when Henry the Eighth married,” said Elk.
“Who do you imagine I am?” asked this debonair man of the world.
“I’ve ceased imagining anything about you, Balder—I know!”
Elk walked with a quick movement toward him and thrust the muzzle of the pistol in his prisoner’s diaphragm.
“Put up your hands and turn round,” he said.