The barrel of Harrison Smith's pistol pressed unpleasantly into his short ribs and Dirk's mascot "whump-whumphed" in the air above his head.
"A little persuasion."
"No, not even with a little persuasion." His voice rang high on a note of challenge. "If you want that paper, you'll have to accept my terms and my terms are stiff."
"I can tell you 'oo'll be stiff ternight if he don't——"
The sentence was never finished, for from the hall outside came the sound of Mrs. Barraclough's voice:
"I may be a little late for dinner, Cook, so don't put on the potatoes till the half hour."
"My mother," said Anthony, warningly.
With a curse and a growl Smith and Dirk backed away, pocketing their weapons, as Mrs. Barraclough in a long motor cloak and veil came into the room.
For a second she stood in the doorway, her eyes travelling from her son to the two men and back again. From the astonishment on her features Anthony read plainly enough that Flora and Jane had failed to find and advise her of the danger.
At this perilous stage a false move might mean the loss of everything. The one hope was to preserve a seeming of normality and at the same time convey a message as to the real significance of the situation. And like a flash came into his head a memory of boyhood scrapes and a mother who had never failed him in the hour of need. He whipped out his white handkerchief and with a single hand, an old conjuring trick, threw a knot in the centre and dangled it before Mrs. Barraclough's eyes. No message by wire or wireless ever reached its destination in quicker time than that old S. O. S. of school boy fame. He saw her tap out the "received" signal with a forefinger on the front of her cloak, then turned with a wave of the handkerchief to introduce the visitors.