Grappled by one, with two approaching him from different directions, Lannigan, for a brief instant, seemed to hesitate on which he should use his revolver.
The hesitation was fatal to him, for, as a matter of fact, in his doubt he aimed nowhere, discharging it between Nick and Patsy.
The next moment Patsy had seized his arm that held the revolver, and, with a quick wrench, he took it from his hand.
Without weapons, Lannigan made even then a desperate effort at a fight.
He was a powerful man, with muscles like steel, wiry and active. But he was not a match in strength or skill for even Chick, and when Patsy’s strength was added, he was as a child between them.
The two threw him over on the bed, where they held him down.
“You’d better give up,” said Nick. “You’re done, and you can’t make any fight. You’ve lost the game. It’s all up with you.”
“Who are you?” panted Lannigan. “What do you want?”
“Those drawings and the model that you stole from Mr. Herron’s house night before last, which were stolen from you by Spike Thomas yesterday afternoon, and which you stole from Spike Thomas this morning.”
Lannigan stared at Nick, leaning carelessly over the foot of the bed, and breathed rather than said: