“Ha-ha!” tittered the old man. “So that gets you on the raw, eh? What says the bereaved husband-to-be?”
“Sachems of the Seminole Nation do not waste their words on buzzards.”
“Thank you, young man,” wheezed the voice. “It is interesting to learn at first hand that the American Indian is as stoical in undergoing mental torture as in burning at the stake! But to return to your girl-friend on the floor over there—Miss Lightfoot made two bad mistakes. She had the misfortune to get a good look at one of my associates when he was searching for a certain emblem. And in the car, she ripped off my mask, and she saw me! Against my wishes, I must send her away with you, or else certain plans of mine would be jeopardized.”
“Well, Osceola, old man,” said Bill, ignoring their tormentor. “Sorry I got you into this, and sorrier still we both have to listen to this pitiful drivel. Unless he stops his cackle soon, I’ll be forced to take a nap in self-defense.”
“So long, Bill, old sport,” Osceola replied in his deep, grave voice. “Happy hunting—and sweet dreams!”
“Very pretty, very pretty indeed, young gentlemen. So sorry to bore you longer. You will be interested to know that my lookout on the hill tells me the police have just left Heartfield’s in their cars. They should reach here in about fifteen minutes. But you must not become too impatient. You see, I have a surprise for you and for them. In slightly over a quarter of an hour, this house and those in it will go shooting skywards—in other words, blow up. Good-bye again,—I must fly now, and I’m sure my news will help you keep your courage to the very end.”
Bill heard footsteps creaking on bare boards, then a door slammed. He turned at once to his friend.
“How are you tied?”
“Roped—wrists behind my back—and ankles. Blindfolded, too.”
“Same here. Wriggle over and I’ll get my hands on the knots.”