"All right, Major," said Ferret pleadingly. "I'm sorry, Major. Forget it, won't you?" Major, his flashlight in his left hand, drew his revolver with his right. He pointed his gun toward the body on the floor, and made a significant gesture.
"I'm doing the shooting," he declared coldly. "If it's necessary, I'll give this bird all the bullets he needs. You'll do what I tell you, and you'll like it. I'm waiting for Butcher. Get me?"
Ferret nodded.
"Put away your gun," ordered Major.
Ferret pocketed his revolver. He leaned against the wall, and folded his arms beneath his hunched shoulders.
He had lost all his braggadocio. Now his chief concern was to avoid Major's glance.
Major laughed as he saw the furtive eyes move away. He had shown his authority. All thought of mutiny had been quelled. Major lowered his gun. The scene had the aspects of a tableau. Ferret, head turned away, was backed against the wall, his arms still folded.
Major was like a statue of vengeance. His flashlight in his left hand — his gun in his right — both were unmoving. The still body lay on the floor, sprawled at Major's feet. Major's gun hand was directly above it.
Cold silence reigned. Major was watching Ferret, who was gazing shiftily about. Then came motion unperceived. Slowly, with strained effort, the right hand of The Shadow moved!
Upward it came, as though it alone were imbued with life. Creeping, like a creature detached from the body beside it, the hand rose higher until its gloved fingers were an inch away from Major's revolver. The hand paused there as though seeking strength for a mighty effort.