Martell reached for a buzzer, and then drew back his hand. He looked at the tallest of the three.
“Tony. Are you the Merlin?”
Tony—a dark, lean young man, with very keen black eyes and a thin eager face—cocked up a quizzical eyebrow. “I, sir? The—”
Martell’s restraint failed for an instant as he snapped, “Answer me!”
Tony sobered. “No, sir,” he said quietly. “I’m not.”
“Phil.”
The second youth, blond and stocky, took a stubby pipe out of his mouth.
“No, sir.”
“Jimmy.”
The third of the trio looked somewhat like Tony, though a less matured man. The eagerness in Tony’s face was enthusiasm in Jimmy’s, boyish and pleasant. He shot a quick glance at the others, hesitated, and finally said, with a little frown, “I’m not the Merlin, sir.”