“Go ahead, Birdie,” he said.
Harry turned his head. His eyes were toward the gloomy passage that came from the farmhouse. He was the only one looking in that direction.
He gasped in sudden hope as a man emerged from the tunnel, and came into the light. Then he groaned.
The newcomer was the short, dark man with the black mustache who had captured him some nights before. This must be the fellow they called “Jerry.”
The stocky man moved quietly as he approached the group. When he had nearly reached them, he stopped short. Isaac Coffran heard him then, and turned.
The man was standing with his hands behind his back. He brought them to view with remarkable quickness, and threw two automatics toward the four men who were torturing Harry Vincent.
“Hands up!”
The businesslike command of the stranger had its effect. The four surprised men raised their arms above their heads, without an instant’s hesitation.
The dark-visaged man handled the revolvers carelessly. Disdain was on his face, as he walked toward the casket.
He seemed to learn everything at a glance. His eyes were quick; his hands were restless. Even though he failed to cover all of the men, not one dared to move.