A twang like the snapping of a 'cello string brought his head round sharply.
"Hands away from your side pocket."
It was less of an invitation than an order.
The speaker was a big, broad-shouldered American of the thruster school, heavy jaw, black hair and hurry. He held his gun dead rigid against his thigh and there was that in his eyes which foretold that where he looked he could hit. This was Ezra P. Hipps.
"Set down and don't move—this thing goes off," he said.
Richard considered the proposal and the speaker and judged both to be sound.
"Thanks," he said, "I'd like a stall for this entertainment," and dropped into a chair.
The man who was standing behind Van Diest came forward and smiled gracefully. He was sleek and too well dressed and gave the appearance of being out of his natural element and ashamed of the one in which he found himself.
"You remember me, Barraclough, old fellow," he said, swinging his pistol as though it were a cane.
"I'm a terror for forgetting trifles," Richard replied sweetly.
"Remind me."