Greenleaf, holding him again by one arm, shoved him toward the bureau. He got out of his shirt, Greenleaf shifting his grasp so as not to let go of him for a second. In trying to put the front collar button into the fresh shirt, he broke off its head.
"Come on," growled the chief. "You don't need a collar anyway."
"Not so fast! I've more than one collar button."
He put his hand into a tray and picked up another. It had a long shank and was easily manipulated because of the catch that permitted the movement of its head, as if on a hinge.
"This is better," he said, fingering it, unhurried as a man with hours to throw away.
"Get a move on! Get a move!" Greenleaf growled again, tightening his hold until it was painful.
Bristow, apparently bent on throwing off this rough grasp on his left arm, swiftly raised his right hand with the button to his mouth.
For the fraction of a second his eyes, bright and defiant, met Braceway's. The detective, reading the elation in them, shouted:
"Look out!"
There was a click. And Bristow flung away the button as Braceway caught at his hand.