"Say!"
The two Van Pyckes jumped. The voice that uttered the raucous monosyllable was masculine, and it seemed to burst from a spot not far removed from their elbows. Bewildered, they stared this way and that in quest of the rude owner of that voice.
"Keep your hands off o' them jewels," said the voice, levelly.
Bosworth's indignant gaze discovered the man in the very centre of the group of "dummies." The young man experienced a queer shiver of dismay. Was he losing his senses?
A pink-cheeked gentleman with a crêpe mustache arose from a chair in the extreme background. He leveled a menacing finger, with Bosworth as the object of its concern.
"Move back from that table, gents," remarked the vivified object near the windows. The Messrs. Van Pycke fell back several paces, still staring blankly at the figure.
Bosworth gulped. "Are you—alive?" he demanded, putting his fingers to his temple.
"Alive? What do you think I am? A corrupse?" exclaimed the figure.
"I meant to say, are you the only live one in—in the crowd?"
The man looked about him, perplexed. Then he understood. "Oh, you mean these freaks? Say, my disguise must be all right. I look like a waxwork, do I? I—"