The Butcher had sunk back in his chair. There was fear in his face; it was white, and he circled his lips with his tongue.
Beneath the mask, the Hawk's lips were a straight line. He laid down his automatic on the table, placed the receiver to his own ear, and held the transmitter to the Butcher's lips.
“Go ahead!” ordered the Hawk. “Ask him what he wants.” His fingers, cupped and pressed over the transmitter, lifted.
“Hello!” said the Butcher. “What is it?”
“That you, Butcher? Everything all right?” inquired the voice.
The Hawk nodded.
“Yes,” said the Butcher.
“Well, open up a bit!” complained the voice. “Did you get him, and——”
The voice was speaking on. The Hawk's lips had set a little tighter. He had recognised the voice now. His fingers were pressed over the transmitter again.
“Tell him you laid me out cold,” instructed the Hawk; “and that I haven't regained consciousness, yet. Now!” The voice had ceased speaking; the Hawk's fingers lifted again.