“No!” said the Frenchman desperately.
The Hawk's automatic tapped the table top with a hint of petulance.
“And—and what guarantee have I,” the Frenchman burst out, “that you will give me the tube after you have taken my money?”
“My word,” said the Hawk evenly. “And—I am waiting, Doctor Meunier!”
The Frenchman hesitated, then, with an oath, flung his pocketbook upon the table. The Hawk opened it, extracted the wad of bills that he had seen exhibited in the superintendent's office, smiled as he fingered them, and put them in his pocket. He pushed the lead capsule across the table—and suddenly, as the other reached for it, the Hawk was on his feet, his automatic flung forward, his left hand grasping the other's sleeve.
They held that way for an instant, eying each other—the Hawk's left hand slowly pushing back the other's right-hand sleeve. And then the Hawk's eyes shifted—to a long, jagged, white scar on the bare forearm just above the wrist.
“Shall I introduce myself—Parson Joe?” purred the Hawk.
The other's face was a mottled red—it deepened to purple.
“No, blast you!” he said between his teeth. “I know you—but I didn't think you knew me. So you called the turn when the Bantam followed me—eh?”
The Hawk shook his head.