The sudden command had been fully justified.
One of Follansbee’s long, lean hands crept to his side—the side away from the detective—and had been extended toward an open drawer in the desk.
Nick did not wait to see whether his order met with obedience or not. The words were still on his lips when he leaped to his feet and flung himself across the intervening space, grasping the thin, steel-like wrists of the physician.
The grip brought Follansbee to his feet, and for a moment the two faced each other, their eyes flashing. Perhaps the powerful grip of the detective’s fingers had warned Follansbee of the uselessness of a struggle, but the unmasked, flaming rage in his face revealed the depth of his hatred.
A quiet smile flitted over the detective’s features. He quietly brought Follansbee’s two wrists together, clasped them both with the fingers of one hand, and then leaning down, pulled out the open drawer a little farther.
As he had anticipated, he found a revolver in it. This he confiscated and dropped it into his pocket.
“I’ll take charge of this,” he announced. “All the same, though, I don’t trust you, and I must ask you to keep your hands on the desk hereafter. If you don’t, you may get hurt.”
With that he released Follansbee and stepped back. The head of St. Swithin’s glared at him for a few brief moments, then subsided into his chair again, and, with a sullen, venomous look, leaned both arms on the desk.
“I suppose there’s no use in playing the part any longer,” he confessed.
Nick pricked up his ears at this and wondered if it were possible that Follansbee was about to make a clean breast of it. The latter’s next words, however, proved that the hope was groundless.