“Ah, ha!” snapped Kirschell triumphantly. “So you've thought better of it, have you? I imagined you would! Well, where's the——” The words seemed to freeze on his lips; there was a sudden terror in his face. “What—what does this mean?” he faltered.
Two masked men, the one who had been with Calhoun in the corridor, and a taller, more heavily built man, had stepped in behind Calhoun, and were advancing toward the desk.
The short man pointed a revolver at Kirschell's head.
“Calhoun says he keeps a gun in the middle drawer of the desk,” he grunted to his companion. “Get it!”
The other, leaning over, pulled the drawer open, and, appropriating Kirschell's revolver, stuck it in his pocket.
Kirschell's tongue circled his lips. He looked wildly from one to the other.
“We just dropped in to make a confession, Mr. Kirschell,” said the short man, with an ugly jeer. “We don't like to see an innocent man suffer—understand? I'm the one that lifted your cash box, you measly shark—me and my pal there. I heard you trying to stick it on Calhoun. We ain't asking any favours for ourselves, and when we get through with you, you can tell the police it was us, and that we're part of the crowd that's been making things lively around these parts—you've been reading the papers, ain't you?—but you open your mouth about Calhoun, you put him in bad when he had nothing to do with it, and inside of twenty-four hours you'll be found in a dark alley somewhere with a bullet through you! Get me? You know who you're up against now, and you've got fair warning!”
Kirschell was huddled in his chair. His little black eyes were no longer restless—they were fixed in a sort of terrified fascination on the speaker.
“Yes.” He licked his lips again. “Yes, I—I understand,” he mumbled.
From his pocket the Hawk took a mask, which he slipped over his face; and from his pocket he took his automatic.