“Why—why—you rat!” he exclaimed in hysterical relief at seeing a living man whom he recognised there at his feet. “What are you doing here?”
The hunchback’s red eyes blazed up at him from the floor.
“Who—who is he?” faltered the girl.
“He’s a German tailor named Albert Feke—one of the Chicago Bolsheviki—the most dangerous sort we harbour—one of their vile leaders who preaches that might is right and tells his disciples to go ahead and take what they want.”
He looked down at the malignant cripple.
“You’re wanted for the I. W. W. bomb murder, Albert. Did you know it?”
The hunchback licked his bloody lips. Then he kicked himself to a sitting position, squatted there like a toad and looked steadily at Tressa Norne out of small red-rimmed eyes. Blood dripped on his beard; his huge hairy fists, tied and crossed behind his back, made odd, spasmodic movements.
Cleves went to the telephone. Presently Tressa heard his voice, calm and distinct as usual:
“We’ve caught Albert Feke. He’s here at my rooms. I’d like to have you come over, Recklow.... Oh, yes, he kicked and scuffled and scratched like a cat.... What?... No, I hadn’t heard that he’d been in China.... Who?... Albert Feke? You say he was one of the Germans who escaped from Shantung four years ago?... You think he’s a Yezidee! You mean one of the Eight Assassins?”
The hunchback, staring at Tressa out of red-rimmed eyes, suddenly snarled and lurched his misshapen body at her.