Murk began wondering at the object of the assault upon him. He could feel the roll of bills Prale had given him bulging his vest pocket, so he guessed robbery was not the motive. He managed to sit up on the sofa now, and he glared at the two thugs before him with right good will.
One of the men went back into the adjoining room, and the other remained standing before Murk, sneering at him, his hands opening and closing as if he would take Murk's throat in them and choke the life out of Sidney Prale's valet and comrade in arms.
Then the man who had left the room returned, and there was another with him. Murk looked at this stranger with sudden interest. He was well dressed, Murk could see, but he wore an ulster that had the wide collar turned up around his neck, and he had a mask on his face—a home-made mask that was nothing more than a handkerchief with eye slits cut in it.
"Afraid to show yourself, are you?" Murk sneered. "Who are you—the chief thug?"
The masked man pulled a chair up before the sofa and sat down. His eyes glittered at Murk through the slits in the handkerchief.
"You are not going to be harmed, my man—if you are reasonable," he said.
"Reasonable about what?" Murk demanded.
"We want some information and we think you can give it to us; that is all."
"I don't know much," said Murk.
"Tell us why you were prowling around that house near the Park."