There was an exclamation from the arm-chair.
"If you've got anything to say," said the thick voice angrily, "get it off your chest and go—to hell," he added, as an afterthought. "What do you want?" the voice demanded, as Malcolm Sage remained silent.
"I want you to take a little run with me in my car," said Malcolm
Sage evenly. "Fresh air will do your nose good."
"What the——" the man broke off, apparently choked with passion, then, recovering himself, added, "Here, cough it up, or else I'll have you thrown out into the street! What is it?"
"I want either you, or one of your friends, to come with me to where
Charley Burns has been taken."
There was a stifled exclamation from the chair, then a howl of agony as the hand holding the handkerchief dropped. At the same moment three men burst into the room. Malcolm Sage's back was to the door. He did not even turn to look at them.
Somebody switched on the light, and Malcolm Sage saw before him the puffy face of a man of about sixty, in the centre of which was a hideous purple splotch that had once been a nose. A moment later the handkerchief obscured the unsavoury sight.
"What the hell's all this about?" shouted one of the men, advancing into the room, the others remaining by the door.
Slowly Malcolm Sage turned and regarded the three men, whose appearance proclaimed their pugilistic calling.
"I was just asking Mr. Goldschmidt to be so good as to accompany me to where Charley Burns is——"