“I thought you had killed him, Larry, mebbe,” growled Carney. “I wanted to make sure you hadn’t. I’m not running my neck into a rope.”
“Rope be hanged!” snapped the other, subsequently learned to be one Laurence Trent, and by far the worst crook of the two. “Ah, I thought so. Here they are, Andy.”
Patsy felt his two revolvers jerked from his pockets, and then the chill of the handcuffs around his wrists, locked with a pressure that nearly stopped the circulation. He still pretended to be unconscious, nevertheless, bent upon learning more and biding his time for a counter-move.
“I knew you would find them,” said Margate. “I’ve known from the first, Larry, that I must be right.”
“These prove it, Andy.”
“As for your running your neck into a rope, Carney, you’re no good at running,” said Margate, coldly addressing the other. “Otherwise, you would have worked your legs fast enough to keep out of limbo. You’ve come near making a mess of a good thing.”
“I’m sorry, Andy, on my word,” replied Carney. “But I slipped in starting, and that put me behind. I hope I have not queered it.”
“I never let a job of mine be queered,” Margate said, with sinister assurance. “I can see my way clear, all right, but we must get in our work more quickly than if these infernal sleuths had not turned up.[{30}]”
“Who d’ye think is on the case?” growled Trent, who had been making Patsy doubly secure with a cord around his elbows.
“I dunno,” said Carney, turning to him. “Who?”