"Thanks."
Gramont continued his way, conscious that they were staring after him. If there was anything phony about him, they evidently considered that Memphis Izzy would take care of the matter very ably.
The steps of the cottage porch creaked protestingly as Gramont ascended them. Perhaps Memphis Izzy recognized an unaccustomed footstep; perhaps that conversation outside had penetrated to him. Gramont entered the front door into the hall, and as he did so, Gumberts opened the door on his right and stood gazing at him—rather, glaring.
"Who're you?" he demanded, roughly.
"Came out with a message from Mr. Fell," responded Gramont at once. "Brought some orders, I should say——"
The sixth sense of Memphis Izzy, which had carried him uncaught into a grizzled age, must have flashed a warning to his crook's brain. In the man's eyes Gramont read a surge of suspicion, and knew that his bluff could be worked no longer.
"Here's his note," he said, and reached into his pocket.
Gumberts' hand flashed down, but halted as Gramont's pistol covered him.
"Back into that room, and do it quickly," said Gramont, stepping forward. "Quick!"
Memphis Izzy obeyed. Gramont stood in the doorway, his eyes sweeping the room and the men inside. Startled, all four of them had risen and were staring at him. In his other hand he produced the automatic which he had taken from Dick Hearne.