They peered at the sound, and found their captive looking at them maliciously, a hard smile over the strong lines of his mouth under the close-cropped mustache.
O’Leary went up to him and examined carefully the sturdy figure, neatly dressed, though, in the struggle, a rent had been torn in the coat where a pocket had been wrenched.
“I think I’d find out what the person you call ‘Dangerfield’ has to say about that,” he said coolly.
Inga joined O’Leary, and together they stood, undecided, gazing down at the man who lay on the floor propped up against a great armchair.
“Nice business for a man like you to be in!” said O’Leary scornfully. “Well, you’ll get time enough to think it over—up the river.”
“Perhaps,” he said, with a shrug. “Have you any objection to my sitting in a chair while you make up your mind?”
“What’ll we do?” said O’Leary, turning to Inga in perplexity.
“Wait,” she said, after a moment.
“You know best,” said O’Leary, and, leaning down, he caught the man by the shoulders and lifted him to a chair. A splotch of blood showed on his head just back of the ear, where he had crashed against a corner of the chest.