Sheriff Len Schlager stepped from behind a tree. He held a revolver on Kent. Sedgwick made a swift motion and the muzzle swung accurately on him.
“Steady, Frank,” warned Kent anxiously.
“I’m steady enough,” returned the other. “What a fool I was not to bring a gun.”
“Oh, no,” contradicted the scientist. “Of what use is my gun? We’re in the light, and he is in the shadow.”
“So you’ve got a gun on you, eh?” remarked the sheriff, his chuckle deepening.
“I didn’t say so.”
“No; but you gave yourself away. Hands up, please. Both of you.”
Four hands went up in the air. Kent’s face, in the light, was very downcast, but from the far corner of his mouth came the faintest ghost of a whistled melody—all in a minor key. It died away on the night air and the musician spoke in rapid French.
“Attention! La ruse gagne. Quand lui donnerai le coup de pied, battez-le á terre.”
“What’s that gibberish?” demanded Schlager.