"I—I——"
He had her by the wrists now, one on each side, and Tricot's skinny hand threatened her throat.
"Speak——!"
"I—I threw them out of the window," she gasped.
It was evident that at last in her terror she had spoken the truth. With an oath Quinlevin threw her aside and ran to the window while Tricot twisted her arm back of her, his other hand at her throat.
"Jeem!" she shrieked in a last despairing effort. "Go! Go!" And then the fingers of the apache closed and the sound was stifled as she fell back in a chair helpless.
"Shut up, damn you," growled Quinlevin. "Keep her quiet, you. Not death, you understand. We may need her."
Piquette heard these things dimly. A torrent was roaring at her ears and her eyeballs seemed to be starting from her head as she fought for her breath, but the relentless fingers pressed at her windpipe.
"And you, Monsieur?" she heard Tricot ask.
"I'm going down—into the garden. If she speaks the truth I'll find it out."