For these Pete was to make a favorable signal, and they would get in all right.
In the case of others he would signal unfavorably and they would find “everything locked up.”
Understanding this perfectly well, Nick kept a watchful eye on the negro while passing him. He saw Pete back against the wall of the alley.
Certainly there was some signaling apparatus there—probably an electric bell.
In an instant Nick had the burly negro by the throat.
“Signal right,” he said, in a voice which showed that he meant it. “Signal right or this goes through your heart.”
Pete could feel a sharp point pressed against his breast. It pricked him, and a few drops of blood began to flow.
He dared not struggle. He was in mortal terror. The grip on his throat was choking him, and the knife was at his heart.
“Fo’ de lub er Heaven, Mr. Hardy,” he gasped, as the pressure on his windpipe relaxed, “don’t cut me an’ I’ll do what you say.”
“Wait a minute, Pete. Hear what I’ve got to say, before you do anything.”