“You flatter me!” said the Hawk dryly. “I'm afraid I've put you to quite a little trouble—for nothing!”
Sullen, red, furious, Parson Joe's face twitched.
“You win to-night”—the heavy-lensed spectacles were off, and the black eyes, the pupils gone, burned on the Hawk—“but you're going out! As sure as God gave you breath, we'll get you yet, and——”
“The Butcher told me that, and so did the Cricket—some time ago,” said the Hawk wearily. “I'm—keep your hands above the table—I'm sure you mean well!” He was backing toward the door. “I won't bother to relieve you of your revolver; and I don't think you'll telephone down to the office. It might be awkward explaining to the police how Doctor Meunier lost his pocketbook—and got his medical degree! I shall, however, lock the door on the outside, as I shall require a minute or two to reach the street, and I cannot very well go through the hotel corridor with—this”—he jerked his hand toward his mask.
The other's hands were above the table, obediently in plain view—but they were clenching and unclenching now, the knuckles white.
The Hawk reached behind him, took the key from the lock, listened, opened the door slightly, and, still facing into the room, still covering the other with his automatic, reached around the door and fitted the key into the outside of the lock.
“When you get out,” said the Hawk, as though it were an afterthought, “I'm sure the Butcher will be glad to see you—I am afraid he is not as comfortable as he might be!”
The black eyes, with a devil's fury in them, had never left the Hawk's. And now the other lifted one of his clenched hands above his head.
“I'd give five years—five years of my life—for a look at your face!” he whispered hoarsely.
The Hawk was backing through the door.