“The Gasconne?” Senov’s tone was inquiring. “Ah, yes. The steamship Gasconne. It sails from Cherbourg. I shall be glad to tell you all about the Gasconne—”
His voice was slowly rising. Cliff noted the fact. He sensed a trap. But before he could make a move, he felt the cold muzzle of a revolver pressed against the back of his neck.
“Drop that pistol,” came a smooth voice in his ear.
Cliff let the automatic fall to the floor. He raised his hands. The cold steel pressed against his flesh, and Cliff’s shoulder was swung by a thrusting hand. He backed against the wall, to find himself facing a man who wore a black mask. Another masked figure stood behind the first.
Cliff’s arms were above his head. He stared indifferently away from the threatening revolver. He saw Senov, grinning triumphantly.
“You were wise, eh?” exclaimed the Russian. “Wise to come in here, with men of mine outside, watching? Ha ha! You have been very foolish.”
Senov turned to the first of the two men who had entered. This individual was no longer covering Cliff.
The second man had taken up that work.
“Well done, brother!” declared Senov in Russian.
Cliff could not understand the words, but he noted their commending tone, and cursed himself for his lack of precaution.