With a slight bow, Wilberton arose from the table. He walked deliberately to the door, a smile on his lips.
“Turn this way,” he commanded. Both Griscom and The Shadow obeyed. The threat of Crowley’s gun brooked no refusal.
“Guns,” remarked Wilberton, “are noisy and troublesome.”
Crowley was following him to the door and took his place there, still covering the men by the table. “I have a much better way” — Wilberton was affecting pleasantry — “a far better way to dispose of you!”
He drew a cord from behind a picture.
“When this is pulled,” he said, “a gas will enter the room. It will not be unpleasant. You will die easily — with nothing but regrets for your folly.
“When I draw the cord, Crowley will open the door. I shall leave; he will follow. His gun, by the way, will go last. Crowley is an excellent shot.
“Until the door is finally closed, you will not be freed from the menace of his automatic. Once the cord is drawn, I may add, nothing can stop the flow of gas. That has been arranged!”
Wilberton looked at Crowley. The man nodded. Wilberton drew the cord. There was a slight hissing somewhere in the room. It ended immediately. The gas was flowing.
“Open the door, Crowley,” ordered Wilberton.