Marston tried to pull himself together. He must be calm, but calm was hard. Peters gave him a mocking smile.
"There's something yet. The Bat is not a mulatto."
"Not a mulatto?" said Marston dully. "What is he then?"
"A white man. If you're not satisfied, ask your partner. He knows him best."
"Who is the Bat, Harry?"
"Rupert Wyndham," Wyndham answered and turned his head.
For a moment or two Marston said nothing, and then his lethargy vanished. Horror gave way to fury and he clenched his hand as he turned to Peters.
"You have shot your bolt and missed," he said. "You're a cunning brute, but all the same a fool. Now get off, or I'll throw you over the wall."
Peters hesitated. His surprise was plain, and Wyndham's tense face softened to a grim smile. Peters had not reckoned on Bob. The latter advanced upon him threateningly.
"Did you think you could blackmail us?" he resumed with a hoarse laugh. "That we'd take you for a partner in order to keep you silent while we got rich? The thing's ridiculous! Now you begin to understand this, aren't you going?"