Mohun quietly drew his revolver, and cocked it.
“Fear nothing, my dear sir,” he said, “and, above all, do not attempt to escape.”
Swartz hesitated, and cast an uneasy glance upon the weapon.
“Does the sight of this little instrument annoy you?” said Mohun, laughing. “It shall not be guilty of that impoliteness, Mr. Swartz.”
And he uncocked the weapon, and replaced it in its holster.
“Now,” he continued, “sit down, and let us talk.”
Swartz obeyed. Before Mohun’s penetrating glance, his own sank. He took his seat in a broken-backed chair; drew forth a huge red bandanna handkerchief; wiped his forehead; and said quietly:—
“I expected to meet a friend here to-night, gentlemen, instead of—”
“Enemies?” interrupted Mohun. “We are such, it is true, my dear sir, but you are quite safe. Your friend Nighthawk is called away; he is even ignorant of our presence here.”
“But meeting him would have been different, gentlemen. I had his safe conduct!”