“Yes, but the trouble is that—well, you know the old proverb—too hackneyed to quote.”
While he was speaking Wraile had tied Ryland’s hands behind his back and also bound his ankles together, while Mrs. Wraile kept the unfortunate young man covered with her husband’s automatic. At the last words Ryland’s normally pale face turned a dead white, by comparison with which his accustomed pallor seemed the glow of health.
“Just what do you mean by that?” he asked, in a voice that he was evidently doing his utmost to keep steady.
Wraile laughed shortly and was about to reply when Lessingham broke in:
“I—I don’t like this,” he said. “What are you going to do, Wraile? You’re not going to . . .”
“Oh, dry up,” the other broke in curtly, his patience with his confederate evidently wearing thin. “You know perfectly well we can’t afford to let this chap go now.”
“Yes, but can’t we put him somewhere till we’re—till we’re—you know what I mean.”
“Yes, I know what you mean, and I’m not going to—not yet—not till I’m at my last gasp do I give up this chance of a lifetime now that it’s at our very mouths. No, we’re going through with this—and this young fool’ll have to be put out of the way.”
“Aren’t you being just the least bit cold-blooded? discussing the poor boy’s fate in front of his eyes?” interposed Mrs. Wraile. “Supposing we adjourn to my office.”
“Not much, there’s no fire there. We’ll put him in there if you like. No, don’t shout, Fratten; no one’ll hear you and you’ll get a bullet for a certainty; as it is, you’ve got just a hundred to one chance that we may hit on some way of pulling this off without wringing your neck. Lessingham will plead for you and I’m sure your Daphne’ll do all she can for her fancy boy. Come on, you’ll have to hop.”