Would Bittle have left his cigar behind him?
An indefinable suspicion of impending danger tingled up her spine like the caress of a thousand needle-points of ice. . . .
Or did it mean that he would be back in a moment? If so, she was asking for trouble by keeping the light on and standing full in the blaze of it. Hurriedly she clicked the lever over, and darkness descended again.
She spun round with a start, and saw him at her shoulder, but he was too quick for her. He had caught her two guns, one in each hand, and torn them out of her grasp before she could move.
Chapter XVIII.
The Saint Returns
Bittle pushed the girl roughly into the cabin and slammed the door.
“Now let’s have a look at you.”
He was in his shirt sleeves, and the fact that he had loosened his tie and unbuttoned his collar for comfort in the sultriness of the evening increased the ruffianly effect of his appearance. John Bittle was one of the men who are only tolerable when conventionally dressed. And his round red face was no longer genial.
His gaze stripped her from crown to toe, and the girl went hot under its slow significant deliberateness.
He stuck her revolvers in his trousers pockets, so that the butts protruded, and leaned against the door, folding his arms and smiling. His smile was introspective, and was not charming; and when he spoke again he did not bother to infuse any mellowness into his voice.