"Very goot, yess," rumbled Orlinov's bass. "Good — like the others."
"Not like Steffan," retorted Tremont, with a short laugh.
"That man wass bad," agreed Orlinov. "This one — he iss goot. But I must wait until a while. Then I can make him be useful."
"You aren't taking chances with him, though. That is best, until he has been here a few months. That's a nice trap you have if he gets curious. Petri could let that sliding door close in a second.
"I don't think there will be trouble, however. Biff Towley picks men who are reliable."
Cliff smiled as he fingered his revolver. He enjoyed this situation. Now he was hearing new information.
"It iss ready for tomorrow night?" came a question from Orlinov.
"Not tomorrow," corrected Tremont. "The next night. Matt Hartley is coming to my home. He will be there at ten o'clock. He has had trouble over some lawsuits.
"It was fortunate that I learned of them and arranged to give him advice. Owing to the circumstances, he is paying me a private visit. I shall do the rest."
"Our friend, the goot doctor—"