One glance the doctor gave at the pistol and then he resumed his counting, as though nothing had happened.
“Twenty, thirty, forty, fifty . . .”
“Now quit that,” said Cuccini roughly. “I tell you, you needn’t count.”
“My friend, I prefer to know what I am going to lose. It is a pardonable piece of curiosity.”
He raised his hand to the wall, where a length of cord hung, and pulled at it gently, without taking his eyes from the bank-notes.
“What are you doing? Put up your hands!” hissed Cuccini.
“Shoot, I beg.” Oberzohn threw a pad of notes on the table. “There is your pay.” He slammed down the lid of the box. “Now you shall go, if you can go! Do you hear them?” He raised his hand, and to the strained ears of the men came a gentle rustling sound from the passage outside as though somebody were dragging a piece of parchment along the floor. “Do you hear? You shall go if you can,” said the doctor again, with amazing calmness.
“The snakes!” breathed Cuccini, going white, and the hand that held the pistol shook.
“Shoot them, my friend,” sneered Oberzohn. “If you see them, shoot them. But you will not see them, my brave man. They will be—where? No eyes shall see them come or go. They may lie behind a picture, they may wait until the door is opened, and then . . . !”
Cuccini’s mouth was dry.