“Hell, no!” snapped Larson, wide-eyed. “You mean it—you’ll give me a chance? I ain’t lying. I’m a crook—but you invited me. You liked me. Now, will you stick to it or not?”
Shrewd, this! Thinking Durant an Englishman, a mistake no Briton would have made, and really a lord,—a mistake only an American could have made,—Larson was appealing to his pride, his sporting instinct of fair play and word given.
“What the devil are you?” demanded Durant. “A Dane, as you posed?”
“Yes, by birth. I’m a naturalized American now. Yes or no?”
“Yes,” said Durant, “—provided you don’t murder this chap.”
“Done with you,” said Larson.
He darted to the prostrate man, frisked him quickly and efficiently, snapped the steel bracelets around their owner’s wrists, emptied the pockets into his own, gagged him with handkerchiefs, stretched him out along one seat after throwing up the arms. To Durant it was a revelation—it showed the man as nothing else could have done. Crook, eh? Then Larson was no petty scoundrel. He knew how to do things.
He snapped the steel bracelets around the owner’s wrists and gagged him with handkerchiefs.
Once more the humor of it smote Durant hard, with added force after Larson’s statement. The man was a professional crook, self-admitted, and Makoff had selected him—but wait! Crook or not, he had swallowed the bait and was hooked, thus to an extent justifying Makoff’s judgment. And Durant himself had been completely deceived by the rascal.