Sharrock knew well that Tremont was speaking facts. Motionless, he stared weakly at the lawyer. Tremont held the gun leveled toward the intended victim's breast.
Savette, nearer to Tremont than Sharrock was, stood away from the line of the lawyer's aim, calmly holding the needle in readiness. He was facing Tremont.
The three men formed a strange tableau, their profiles toward the fireplace, where no embers glowed tonight. Savette was awaiting a signal from Tremont — an indication whether he should go ahead with the injection or whether the lawyer intended to shoot to kill.
No eyes were upon the huge box. Something was happening there. The lone pivot hinge on one side of the box was moving noiselessly upward, actuated by some mechanism operated from the interior. The motion of the hinge stopped.
Now the door of the box was opening, slowly and silently — opening at the side where the hinge had lifted. The strong padlocks, with their firm hasps and staples, were serving as a hinge!
The door was opening the wrong way!
Clear of the tricky hinge, released by slots that were now freed, the door swung wide, pushed open by a hand from within. The noise of that opening turned six eyes toward the box.
Tremont, Savette, and Sharrock gazed instinctively in that direction.
Moving forward from the box was the crouching, huddled form of a man clad entirely in black. He was a blotted form, his body shapeless under its black cloak, his features invisible under the protecting edge of a broad-brimmed hat. His hands were thrust forward. They alone seemed alive. Black-clad hands — in each an automatic!
One gun was trained on Tremont; the other covered Savette. The black form continued its emergence. It rose and took the shape of a tall, sinister being.