He glanced around, pleased to note that both the gun and Mario's murderous gaze were directed toward the place which he had deserted when he'd left the room to follow Kitty.
"Move, Cassidy," Mario grunted. "Get goin' before you turn out to be a mess on the lady's rug."
"Hah!" Fleetwood snorted unconcernedly. "Go on and shoot a hole in the wall, you big imaginary fathead. See if I care."
But even as he said it, the sensation came over him; it was the qualm in reverse, a subtle drain on his reserve of resistance. Dermitt retained more of a hold over him than he had believed. The terror of this sudden realization compelled his attention to such a degree that it was a moment before he realized that he had actually risen from the divan and was moving toward the spot that would place him directly in range of Mario's gun. With an almost superhuman effort he forced himself to stop.
"No," he panted. "No, Dermitt, you can't make me do it. I won't." He dragged himself heavily back toward the divan, as though struggling against a powerful wind. But after only a few steps he slowed, then stopped altogether, unable to move even an inch further. His will was stalemated against Dermitt's.
Then, quite suddenly and most surprisingly, he felt himself released. He fell forward, caught himself against the arm of the divan and swung around into it. He leaned back panting and waiting. Dermitt hadn't given up, he was sure of that; he had simply switched methods.
"Drop that rod, sucker," Mario snarled. "It's empty." He laughed. "Boy, do you look silly, Cassidy. Drop it before I drop you."
"No!" Evelyn screamed. "It's loaded, Mario! He found out! Mario! Don't!"
Mario didn't even give her a glance on that one. "So's a fountain pen," he said. "Okay, Cassidy, this is the last time I'm tellin' you."