They sat the man up and he talked brokenly, hesitatingly.
“Splendid,” said Leon, when he had finished. “Take him into the kitchen and give him a drink—you’ll find a tap above the kitchen sink.”
“I’ve often wondered, Leon,” said George, when they were alone together, “whether you would ever carry out these horrific threats of yours of torture and malignant savagery?”
“Half the torture of torture is anticipation,” said Leon easily, lighting a cigarette with one of the matches he had taken from the table, and carefully guiding the rest back into the glass bowl. “Any man versed in the art of suggestive description can dispense with thumbscrews and branding irons, little maidens and all the ghastly apparatus of criminal justice ever employed by our ancestors. I, too, wonder,” he mused, blowing a ring of smoke to the ceiling, “whether I could carry my threats into execution—I must try one day.” He nodded pleasantly, as though he were promising himself a great treat.
Manfred looked at his watch.
“What do you intend doing—giving the signal?”
Gonsalez nodded.
“And then?”
“Letting them come in. We may take refuge in the kitchen. I think it would be wiser.”
George Manfred nodded.