That, at least, was the way Patsy immediately sized it up.
As quickly, too, recalling the bandage around his neck and his upturned collar, he resorted to a subterfuge which he thought might serve his purpose and prevent an exposure of his true identity and designs.
Sharply eying the threatening intruder, therefore, whom he rightly inferred was the absent physician’s valet, or more properly his confederate, Patsy coolly answered:
“Don’t get miffed, old chap, and go slow with that gun. It might go off by chance, you know, and I don’t like the way it’s pointing. You’ve got me all right, and I’m not fool enough to butt my head against a brick wall.”
Draper viewed him with a scornful curl of his thin lips.
“Sit in that chair,” he repeated, revolver leveled. “Keep your hands on its arms, too, or this gun will go off in the direction it’s pointed—but not by chance.”
“You wouldn’t kill a fellow in cold blood, would you?” asked Patsy, obeying.
“Yes, or hot blood. It would matter little to me.”
“That would be foolish. You might be executed for murder.”
“Not by a long chalk. A man may protect his property with a gun, or that of his employer.”