“That is something I shall tell the police,” declared Morton, in a surly tone.
“Who are dese guys?” came the question as the entrant pointed his thumb toward one of the private detectives.
“My own men,” replied Morton, in an annoyed voice. “They are detectives, in my hire. I am Gifford Morton.”
“Tell ‘em to put up their rods,” ordered the newcomer. “Well take care of this phony.”
The speaker waved to his companion. The two approached Herbert Carpenter. As the private detectives reluctantly lowered their revolvers, the men who had come in produced their own weapons.
“Give ‘em the works, huh?”
These words were uttered in a low voice as the first of the two advancing men neared Herbert Carpenter. A sudden expression of understanding came over Gifford Morton’s purplish face. With a wild cry, he turned toward his two sleuths.
“Look out!” he shouted. “Look out! These men are not the house detectives!”
As the cry came from Morton’s lips, other men appeared at the door. For a brief instant, a tense group seemed ready to spring. Revolvers were flashing into view. Snarls and gasps came from excited lips.
Then a man by the door pressed the light switch. Figures leaped forward in the gloom, which was alleviated only by the light from the outside corridor.