“Number Four is a woman, and Florida is not her countersign.”
And then he faced Verbeck again.
The crisis had arrived sooner than Verbeck had expected. The Black Star knew him for an intruder, and knew also that he must have observed a great deal to be able to don robe and mask and start the blackboard conversation. The master criminal could be expected to act with dispatch.
Before the Black Star could make a move Verbeck’s robe parted and his left hand emerged, holding the pistol ready for instant action. With his other hand he waved toward the armchair, and then he spoke:
“Sit down! And put your hands flat on the table!”
His eyes still glittering into Verbeck’s, the criminal obeyed. Standing at the end of the table, Verbeck confronted him, scarcely knowing what step to take next. The man before him did not speak, but those glittering eyes—burning, malevolent, ominous—seemed to cry out with surprise, hatred, and threats.
“So you are the Black Star?” Verbeck said. “Quite a comedy you play here, eh? Masks hide faces and blackboards take the place of spoken words. A very clever crook—you. But I said a clever man could find you, and I say it again. This is the best proof of it, isn’t it? You challenged me—and I have come. So your man thought he had escaped, did he? If ever you see him again, tell him that his bonds were left loose purposely, so that he’d escape and could be shadowed here. Allow me, sir—Mr. Roger Verbeck, at your service!”
Verbeck raised a hand and tore off his mask, and bowed low in irony, meanwhile watching his victim, for he did not make the mistake of underestimating the cleverness of the man before him, and he was alert for tricks. He saw the Black Star’s hands contract and his arms stiffen, and imagined the master crook calling down curses on the head of the man who had led enemies to his stronghold.
Then the Black Star spoke—in a low, penetrating voice, almost a monotone, obviously disguising his real tones.
“I suppose you think you are very clever?” he said.