He laid the rifle down and folded his hands on top of his head. She walked behind him, down the slope toward the light, her submachine-gun at his back.
As he walked he was building up a strength and speed no human ought to possess.
One of the sentries pacing through the garden came to a halt. His rifle swung up, and the voice was a hysterical yammer: "Who goes?"
"It's me, Buck," cried Elena. "Don't get trigger-happy. I'm bringing in the prisoner."
"Huh?"
Dalgetty shuffled into the light and stood slumped, letting his jaw hang slack as if he were near falling with weariness.
"You got him!" The goon sprang forward.
"Don't holler," said Elena. "I got this one, all right, but there are others. You keep on your beat. I got his weapons from him. He's harmless now. Is Mr. Bancroft in the house?"
"Yeah, yeah—sure." The heavy face peered at Dalgetty with more than a tinge of fear. "But lemme go along. Yuh know what he done last time."
"Stay on your post!" she snapped. "You've got your orders. I can handle him."