“But my diamond,” I said, “when will I get it?”
Walker continued in his leisurely drawl:
“You will get your diamond when Bartoldi gets his.”
“When will that be?” I insisted.
“Right now,” replied Walker.
Then he paused in his stride, took off his hat and extended it for a moment above his head like a tired person who would relax from the fatigue of travel.
Immediately three persons, two men and a woman between them, carrying bags, coats and the usual articles of travel, came out from the crowd pouring into the station from the street and crossed hurriedly into the group waiting at the entrance for the Bar Harbor train.
Then a dramatic thing happened.
I could see the old man clearly; he was watching Walker out of the tail of his eye, and he kept his hands in his pockets, but he was not watching the three persons who came into the group as though seeking the train for which he was bound; and as they passed, quicker than the eye, the man’s hands were seized, dragged out of his pockets and snapped into handcuffs. The pistols gripped in his hands were swept out; they fell to the floor.
“The devil!” I cried. “The old boy is the most dangerous Lothario I ever saw.”