Ross looked at him thoughtfully. He believed that it would not be difficult to throw this slender youth down the stairs, and to walk out of the garage, but he disliked the idea.
“I don’t want to make any trouble, Eddy,” he explained, almost mildly. “But I’m going.”
“Nope!” said Eddy.
Ross took a step forward. Eddy reached in his hip pocket and pulled out a revolver.
“Nope!” he said again.
“What!” cried Ross, astounded. “Do you mean—”
“Tell you what I mean,” said Eddy. “I mean to say that I know who you are, and what you come for, and you’re going to sit pretty till tomorrow morning. That’s what I mean.”
He spoke quite without malice; indeed, his tone was good-humored. But he was in earnest, he and his gun; there was no doubt about it.
It was not Ross’s disposition to enter into futile arguments. He took off his overcoat, sat down, calmly took out a cigarette and lit it.
“I see!” he remarked. “But I’d like to know who I am, and what I came for. I’d like to hear your point of view.”