“That’ll do, Rex!” The words were a sharp command. “If you carry on this way, we’ll have to lock you up in an institution.”
The threat was uttered in what I considered an unnecessarily brutal tone; but it had the desired effect. A haunting fear showed in Rex’s eyes. He seemed suddenly to go limp, and he docilely permitted Von Blon to lead him from the room.
“A sweet specimen, that Rex,” commented Vance. “Not a person one would choose for a boon companion. Aggravated macrocephalia—cortical irritation. But I say, Sergeant; really, y’ know, you shouldn’t have prodded the lad so.”
Heath grunted.
“You can’t tell me that guy don’t know something. And you can bet your sweet life I’m going to search his room damn good for that gun.”
“It appears to me,” rejoined Vance, “he’s too flighty to have planned the massacre in this house. He might blow up under pressure and hit somebody with a handy missile; but I doubt if he’d lay any deep schemes and bide his time.”
“He’s good and scared about something,” persisted Heath morosely.
“Hasn’t he cause to be? Maybe he thinks the elusive gunman hereabouts will chose him as the next target.”
“If there is another gunman, he showed damn bad taste not picking Rex out first.” It was evident the Sergeant was still smarting under the epithets that had so recently been directed at him.
Von Blon returned to the drawing-room at this moment, looking troubled.