As Harkness stood stock-still, a second man appeared. The second man was considerably taller than the first, and bulkier. His face was also hidden by a handkerchief that served as a mask, and an automatic was in his hands.
“Sit down,” came a low, commanding tone.
Harkness obeyed. He moved backward to the easy-chair and dropped into it. The men evidently took it for granted that he was unarmed. They were robbers, by their appearance.
Harkness wondered why they had come here. This was a poverty-stricken neighborhood. He realized then that his presence might have led these men to think that he had articles of value in his studio home. Such was not the case.
Harkness felt no great fear, but he was annoyed.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” he said in a slightly sarcastic voice, as the two masked strangers stood before him. “I suppose you are after valuables and money. I have no valuables here.
“There is some money — about thirty-five dollars. You are welcome to it. My wallet is on the table in the corner. Help yourselves.”
“We don’t want your dough,” said the big man, talking in a voice which Harkness could tell was not the man’s natural tone.
Harkness was puzzled. He could not understand. He was a man who had few friends and no enemies.
An architect by profession, a portrait painter by desire, he had lived very much apart from the world. He could see no menace behind this visit; at the same time, he detected a very definite threat.