“What the devil’s that?”
“What?” snapped Deland, joining him.
“That white thing under the wagon. It looks like a handkerchief.”
A handkerchief it was, as a matter of fact, jolted from Patsy’s pocket just at that fatal moment when the wagon stopped, and fallen to the ground to betray him.
“Gee! it’s all off, and I’m caught, dead sure,” flashed through his mind. “I can’t even pull a gun.”
Deland had crouched quickly to get the handkerchief, and his gaze fell upon Patsy. His eyes took on a quick, fiery glow. With invariable coolness, nevertheless, he whipped out a revolver and said sharply:
“Not only a handkerchief, Jim, but also its owner.”
“What d’ye mean?” Margate snarled.
“See for yourself,” snapped Deland. “Don’t stir till I give you permission, you spying whelp, or there’ll be holes made in you.[Pg 35]”
“Oh, I’m not going to stir,” Patsy said coolly, thoroughly disgusted with the unfortunate turn of affairs. “I’m not dead sure that I can stir, as far as that goes.”