Like a flash, Dick understood. The papers were in the safe, but as he said, he did not know the combination. "Papers?" he said, in a tone of surprise, in order to gain time.
"Yes sah, papers; dat yo' keeps in dar." He nodded toward the safe. "I wants em quick." The hand that held the revolver came slowly to a level with the dark face.
"Shoot if you want to," said Dick, easily, "but I'm telling you the truth. I don't know how to open the safe."
The negro looked puzzled, and Dick, seeing his advantage instantly, let his hand fall easily on his leg, close to the paper weight. "Besides," he said carelessly, "if its my papers you want, that's my desk behind—" He checked himself suddenly as though he had said more than he intended.
The negro's face lighted at what he thought was Dick's mistake, and forgetting himself, half turned in the revolving chair, while the muzzle of the revolver was shifted for just the fraction of a second. It was enough. With the quickness of a serpent, Dick's hand shot out, and the heavy weight caught the negro above the right ear, and with a groan he slid from the chair to the floor.
When the black ruffian regained consciousness, Dick was still sitting on the edge of the table, calmly swinging his feet, but in his hand was his visitor's weapon.
"Well," he said, quietly, "you've had quite a nap. Do you feel better? Or do you think one of these pills would help you?" He slowly cocked and raised the revolver.
"Don't shoot. Don't shoot, sah."
"Why not?" said Dick, coldly, but with the smile still on his face.
That smile did the business. Oaths and threats the black man could understand; but a man who looked deliberately along a cocked revolver, with a smile on his face, was too much for him. He begged and pleaded for his life.