Farbush had leaped to his feet, but with what intention will never be known; for at sight of Kenyon and the murderous Colt he shrank back. Dallas uttered a little cry of joy; she sprang to meet Kenyon with outstretched hands.
“You!” she exclaimed.
“To be sure,” said he. “I am still trying to furnish proof of my rectitude.”
He pressed her hand as he spoke, and his brown eyes twinkled humorously; but, at the same time, they never left Hong Yo and Farbush, and the black muzzle of his huge weapon was not once lowered.
Then the adventurer swiftly stepped to the table and laid a hand upon the packet of securities.
“I think,” said he, coolly, “that I will take charge of these, just now.”
He slid them into his overcoat pocket, and then glanced sharply around as he caught a queer sound from Hong Yo. The Chinaman was swaying weakly; his hands vaguely clutched at the empty air, and his pale lips were muttering in his own language. Then suddenly he pitched forward and lay still. Farbush crept forward, cowed, to look at him.
“He’s dead,” said he.
And just then, through the doorway, came Philip Austin, Garry Webster, and the bandaged youth from Saginaw.
“We heard the screams,” said Webster, “and thought you might need us.” Then seeing the stark form of Hong Yo, he exclaimed: “Hello! What’s this?”