“Go back!” he screamed hysterically at the servants. “Go back! Sit down! Don't move! Do what he tells you!”
“Thank you!” said Jimmie Dale grimly. “Now, get up yourself!”
Markel got up.
Jimmie Dale backed to the library door, picked up the cash box, tucked it under his left armpit, and faced those on the stairs.
“Mr. Markel and I are going out for a little walk,” he announced coolly. “If one of you make a move or raise an alarm before your master comes back, I shall be obliged, in self-defence, to shoot—Mr. Markel. Mr. Markel quite understands that—I am sure. Do you not, Mr. Markel?”
“Helen,” screamed Markel to his wife, “don't let 'em move! For God's sake, do as he says!”
Jimmie Dale's lips, just showing beneath the edge of his mask, broadened in a pleasant little smile.
“Will you lead the way, Mr. Markel?” he requested, with ironic deference. “Through the dining room, please. Yes, that's right!”
Markel walked weakly into the dining room, and Jimmie Dale followed. A prod in the back from the revolver muzzle, and Markel stepped through the French windows and out on the lawn. Jimmie Dale faced the other toward the woods at the rear of the house.
“Go on!” Jimmie Dale's voice was curt now, uncompromising. “And step lively!”