“What’s your game?” he stuttered, as he stood on the veld facing that business-like weapon at uncomfortably close quarters. “What are you up to?”
“Hands up!” Lawless said. And Denzil, alarmed and reluctant, held his hands high above his head.
“I’ll not keep you in that undignified and uncomfortable position longer than necessary,” Lawless went on. “It depends upon yourself how long you have to endure the annoyance. You have in your possession a packet of letters which it is my intention to relieve you of. You will save me trouble, and yourself continued inconvenience, by telling me in which pocket I shall find what I require.”
“Oh! that’s it, is it?” Denzil smiled uneasily. “You might have spared yourself trouble. Van Bleit has the packet. He wouldn’t trust it with me.”
Lawless dropped the rein, leaving it hanging down in front of the forelegs after the Colonial custom with standing horses, and advanced upon the speaker.
“If you waste my time by lying,” he said, “I’ll shoot you. Which pocket is it in?”
Denzil’s eyes snapped; but he was too genuinely alarmed at the cold feel of the revolver against his temples to attempt further procrastination.
“Breast... right-hand side,” he answered shortly.
“This spells ruin for me,” he muttered, as Lawless plunged his left hand inside his coat and drew out the sealed packet Van Bleit had given into his charge in the bedroom a few hours before. “I don’t know how I’ll face Karl. He’ll be for shooting me himself.”
“He’s had one escape from hanging,” Lawless responded drily; “he’ll not risk a second.”