Ismay turned toward him, expostulant.
“What d’ you mean by that?” he demanded.
“Miss Searle has escaped,” said Staff deliberately.
“No!” cried Ismay, startled and thrown off his guard by the fear it might be so. “Impossible!”
“Think so?” As he spoke Staff dextrously snatched up the uppermost pillow and with a twist of his hand sent it whirling into the thief’s face.
It took him utterly unawares. His arms flew up too late to ward it off, and he staggered back a pace.
“Lots of impossible things keep happening all the time,” chuckled Staff as he closed in.
There was hardly a struggle. Staff’s left arm clipped the man about the waist at the same time that his right hand deftly abstracted the pistol from its convenient pocket. Then, dropping the weapon into his own pocket, he transferred his hold to Ismay’s collar and spun him round with a snap that fairly jarred his teeth.
“There, confound you!” he said, exploring his pockets for other lethal weapons and finding nothing but three loaded clips ready to be inserted in the hollow butt of the pistol already confiscated. “Now what ’m I going to do with you, you blame’ little pest?”
The question was more to himself than to Ismay, but the latter, recovering with astonishing quickness, answered Staff by suddenly squirming out of his coat and leaving it in his assailant’s hands as he ducked to the door and flung himself out.