“Ah,” said “Black George” smoothly, “but this is San Francisco’s Chinatown. Don’t forget that. You probably thought it was not possible to trap you, either. But you notice it was done. Your presence here ought to be sufficient indication to you that torture is not impossible.”
“You, scoundrel,” blazed Mr. Temple, “you’ll pay for this. Others know where I have gone. My original guide from the restaurant is waiting for me, and——”
“One of my men,” said “Black George” succinctly. “And your chauffeur, too.”
“Well and good, but the head waiter at the restaurant has my name and——”
“My man, too,” said “Black George.” He rose suddenly, walked close to Mr. Temple, and leaned over and glared into his face.
“Furthermore,” he added, “supposing you get out of this scrape, don’t try to make trouble for them. My agents don’t know all I do, but I protect the men useful to me. Understand?”
As Mr. Temple kept silence, controlling his features, but in reality sore at heart, “Black George” started to move backward slowly.
Suddenly big Bob, who all the time had been quietly working his hands free from the hastily tied bonds, leaped upon him. Bob’s hands went around the other’s throat, throttling him and preventing him from crying out.
At the same moment, Frank and Jack, who also had been working at their bonds and with equal success, leaped for the old Chinaman. The latter moved with surprising swiftness for one of his age. Springing from the chair, he waved a long dagger which mysteriously appeared in his talon-like hand and began to shout a shrill jabber of Chinese words.
Jack leaped in low, arms extended, making a