“’Tis terrible!” announced Haley, “a bum for sure! a dinnermite bum!”—fishing out something like a tin tomato can from the sodden mass.
“Anyhow, there goes the real thing,” observed the colonel coolly, as a formidable explosion jarred the air.
“If you blow us up, I kill you flist!” hissed the Jap, and his knife flashed.
“Chito, Chito!” soothed the colonel, lifting his revolver almost carelessly. Simultaneously two brawny arms pinioned the Jap’s own arms at his sides.
“Shure, Mister Samurai, ’tis the ongrateful chap youse is,” expostulated Haley. “I hate to reshtrain ye, but if ye thry any jehujits on me ’twill be sahanara wid youse mighty quick.”
“No understan’,” murmured the Jap plaintively. “Why you hult me?”
“Come, put out the fire first,” said the colonel; “you know the house, you go ahead.”
The Jap darted on ahead so swiftly that they had some ado to follow; which seemed necessary, since he might have clashed a bolt on them at any turn. The colonel’s stiff leg kept him in the rear, but Haley was never a hand’s-breadth behind the runner.
They found smoke in two places, but they easily extinguished the tiny flames. In both cases the bombs turned out to be no more dangerous than a common kind of fireworks yielding a suffocating smoke in an inclosure, but doing no especial damage on safe and fire-proof ground, like a hearth. They were quickly extinguished. In their search they passed from one luxurious room to another, the Jap leading, until he finally halted in a spacious library hung in Spanish leather, with ancient, richly carved Spanish tables and entrancing Spanish chairs of turned wood and age-mellowed cane, and bookcases sumptuously tempting a book-lover. But the colonel cared only for the soul of a book, not its body; the richest and clearest of black letter or the daintiest of tooling had left him cold; moreover, every fiber in him was strung by his quest; and Haley, naturally, was immune; strangely enough, it was the cheerful, vulgar little detective who gave a glance, rapid but full of admiration, at the shelves and pile of missals on the table, incongruously jostled by magazines of the day.
Winter faced the Jap, who was sheathed again in his bland and impassive politeness. “Where is Mr. Mercer?” said he.