Still Rhoda Gray did not speak for a moment. She seemed to be held in thrall by both terror and a sickening dismay. It did not seem real, her surroundings here, this man, and the voice that was gloatingly pronouncing the death sentence upon the man who had come unbidden into her life, and into her heart, the man she loved. Yes, she understood! Danglar's words had been plain enough. The Adventurer had been trapped—not through Danglar's cunning, or lack of cunning on the Adventurer's own part, but through force of circumstances that had caused him to fling all thought of self-consideration to the winds in an effort to save another's life. Her hands, hidden in the folds of her skirt, clenched until they hurt. And it was another self, it seemed, subconsciously enacting the role of Gypsy Nan, alias Danglar's wife, who spoke at last.
“You are a fool! You are all fools!” she cried tempestuously. “What do you expect to gain by that? Do you imagine you can make the Pug come across with any information by a threat to kill him if he doesn't? You tried that once. You had him cold, or at least you thought you had, and so did he, that night in old Nicky Viner's room, and he laughed at you even when he expected you to fire the next second. He's not likely to have changed any since then, is he?”
“No,” said Danglar, with a vicious chuckle; “and that's why I'm not trying the same game twice. That's why we've got him over in the old iron plant now.”
There was something she did not like in Danglar's voice, something of ominous assurance, something that startled her.
“What do you mean?” she demanded sharply.
“It's a lonely place,” said Danglar complacently. “There's no one around but the watchman, and he's an old friend of Shluker's; and it's so roomy over there that no one could expect him to be everywhere at once. See? That let's him out. He's been well greased, and he won't know anything. Don't you worry, old girl! That's what I came here for—to tell you that everything is all right, after all. The Pug will talk. Maybe he wouldn't if he just had his choice between that and the quick, painless end that a bullet would bring; but there are some things that a man can't stand. Get me? We'll try a few of those on the Pug, and, believe me, before we're through, there won't be any secrets wrapped up in his bosom.”
Rhoda Gray stood motionless. Thank God it had grown dark—dark enough to hide the whiteness that she knew had crept over her face, and the horror that had crept into her eyes. “You mean”—her voice was very low—“you mean you're going to torture him into talking?”
“Sure!” said Danglar. “What do you think!”
“And after that?”
“We bump him off, of course,” said Danglar callously. “He knows all about us, don't he? And I guess we'll square up on what's coming to him! He's put the crimp into us for the last time!” Danglar's voice pitched suddenly hoarse in fury. “That's a hell of a question to ask! What do you think we'd do with a yellow cur that's double-crossed us like that?”