“So is mine,” said Mr. Trevor.
“They’re revolvers, let’s face it,” sighed Beau Maturin.
“They are,” said a hard voice behind them. “So don’t move.”
“I’ve got some sense, thank you,” snapped Beau Maturin.
“Sir,” said the harsh voice, and it was a woman’s voice, “I want none of your lip. I have you each covered with a revolver——”
“Waste,” said Beau Maturin. “One revolver would have been quite enough. Besides, my friend and I were distinctly given to understand that you were partial to a razor. Or do you use that for shaving?”
“I use a razor,” said the harsh voice, “only when I want to kill. But I have a use for you two.”
The light was suddenly switched on, a light so venomous, says Mr. Trevor, that they had to blink furiously. And that must have been a very large room, for they could not see into its far corners. The light came from what must have been a very high-powered lamp directly above a table in the middle of the room; and it was concentrated by a shade in such a way as to fall, like a search-light, exactly on the two helpless gentlemen. Mr. Trevor says that Beau Maturin’s handsome face looked white and ghastly, so the Lord knows what Mr. Trevor’s must have looked like. Meanwhile their captor leapt from her station behind them, and they were privileged to see her for the first time. She was, says Mr. Trevor, exactly as Miss Samsonoff had described her, grey and gaunt and dry, and her expression was strangely contemptuous and evil as sin. And never for a moment did she change the direction of her revolvers, which was towards our gentlemen’s hearts. Mr. Trevor says he cannot remember when he saw a woman look less afraid that a revolver might go off in her hand.
“Look down,” she commanded.
“It’s all right,” said Beau Maturin peaceably; “we’ve already guessed what they are. Corpses. Nice cold night for them, too. Keep for days in weather like this.”