Surprised, Whitaker paused before replying. "Please understand," he said quietly, "that Mrs. Whitaker is seeking a divorce from me. After that, if she has any use for you, I have no objection to her marrying you. And as for the money you stole, I have said nothing about that—intend to say nothing. If you'd had the sense to explain things to me—if I could count on you to leave me alone and not try again to murder me—"
"Oh, go to hell!"
The interruption was little short of a shriek. Ember motioned to Sum Fat, who quietly drew nearer.
"I swear I don't know what to do or say—"
"Then shut up—"
"That'll be about all," Ember interposed quietly. At a glance from him, Sum Fat closed in swiftly and caught and pinioned Drummond's arms from behind.
A disgusting change took place in Drummond. In an instant he was struggling, screaming, slavering: his face congested, eyes starting, features working wildly as he turned and twisted in his efforts to free himself.
Sum Fat held him as he would have held an unruly child. Whitaker looked away, feeling faint and sick. Ember looked on with shrewd and penetrating interest, biding the time when a break in Drummond's ravings would let him be heard. When it came at length, together with a gradual weakening of the man's struggles, the detective turned to Whitaker.
"Sorry," he said. "I didn't dare take any further chances. He'd've been at your throat in another minute. I could see him working himself up to a frenzy. If Sum Fat hadn't grabbed him in time, there's no telling what might not have happened."
Whitaker nodded.