Meanwhile he walked back and forth before his prisoner, the pistol held in his hand, and raged at the man on the divan.
“A cur like you causing a man like Mr. Verbeck pain!” he exclaimed. “Killing’s too good for you! I hope you get a life sentence. But he’s got you, Mr. Black Star! My boss has you! Have your little signs pasted on his bed and all over his library, will you? Leave sassy letters for him, eh? I reckon you’re sorry for it now!”
The Black Star still was smoking the cigar Verbeck had given him. He blinked at Muggs, and puffed at the cigar furiously, then suddenly bent forward and bowed his head on his hands.
“That’s right!” Muggs went on. “Think of your sins! Do a little wailing yourself! Cause my boss trouble, will you? You’d better put your head in your hands and wish you’d played straight! Small good it will do you to repent now, you scum!”
The Black Star’s head bent lower; he was a picture of misery. Muggs looked at him with scorn and turned to walk the length of the room. He stopped his tirade long enough to pick up a sandwich from the table and begin eating it. He imagined the Black Star about to weep because disaster had overtaken him—and Muggs always felt disgusted when he saw a man weep.
But the Black Star was not weeping—he was endeavoring a subterfuge. When he bowed his head, the burning end of his cigar rested against the rope that bound his wrists together. Now and then he puffed again, until the rope was scorched. Strand after strand was burned through as Muggs talked.
“Getting your dirty hands on your betters and making them join your gang!” Muggs said, walking back toward him. “You got your hands on one too many, I guess. And I’ll be a witness at your trial, too! I’ll help send you over the road——”
He had passed the Black Star and was about to turn. And at that instant the Black Star sprang. Muggs was taken unawares. A fist dealt him a blow on the back of the head. As he staggered forward, trying to turn, the pistol was wrenched from his hand and the butt of it crashed against his temple. The Black Star struck him even as Muggs had struck the Black Star in his headquarters room, when Roger Verbeck was shot into the pit.
“Take that, you whelp!” the Black Star cried. “Try conclusions with me, will you—you and your precious master? You haven’t whipped me yet! There’s something in that old house I want—money, and those letters—money to get me away to Chicago, and the letters to send to the prosecuting attorney with a sarcastic little note. I’ll fix your precious master and his girl. And while he’s trying to save her I’ll be taking a train out of town. As for my crooks—bah! I never saw their faces—they are no friends of mine. Let ’em go to prison—there are plenty more crooks to be had!”
He kicked the prostrate Muggs and hurried from the house. He did not know exactly in what part of the city he found himself, but he made for a crossing where he had seen a trolley car flash past, where he could make a start downtown.