He bent and stared closely into her face, but she looked back at him without faltering. Incredulously, he searched for the least hint of wavering in her gaze, but found only a mocking amusement. Conviction forced itself upon him against his will.
“D’you mean to say Carn’s a detective?” he said thickly.
“I do.” Every syllable was a taunt. “And d’you mean to say the Tiger—that old fool—has had Carn living next door for months and never suspected him? . . . Really, you seem to be a very stupid lot!”
His face darkened, and for a moment she thought he would strike her. There was murder in his eyes.
Then he controlled himself, but he stepped back as though he had received a blow.
“Thank you for warning me—I’ll be ready for them,” he rasped. “But you—you’ll never share the laugh. While I’ve got you for a hostage they won’t dare to touch me. You’ll save us all, my beauty!”
“My good man,” retorted Patricia, with that glacial scorn which treated him as an offending flunkey—“I wouldn’t lift a finger to help you if you were roasting in Hell.”
He bared his teeth.
“You’ll change your mind when I set out to make you,” he said.
He flung open the door.