"Not at all. I'm sure, when you're no longer paralyzed, you won't mind signing a little paper, containing an order for the release of Mr. Holcomb—"
"What the devil makes you so interested in Holcomb?" flared back Wiley.
"Well, it's only that I happen to be his wife. Mary Landers is the name of a cousin of mine. Dan and I have been planning to get him out of your dungeon when you locked him up there again, as we expected you would. I'm simply carrying out his ideas."
Angry sounds, like the growls of enraged bears, came from the throats of all three prisoners.
"If we sign," demanded Malvine, "will you let us go?"
"There's only one promise I can make. If you don't sign, my friends here"—she designated the three guards—"will see that you remain paralyzed."
The conspirators were trapped, and they knew it; were caught like rats in a corner, beyond rescue by the corrupt system they had built up. And so, after their paralysis had begun to wear off and they had been re-paralyzed several times in succession, they bowed their heads in capitulation.
"Come on," snarled Hogarth, "give us that damned paper!"
He glanced over the sheet, and an even angrier snarl came from his throat.
"You must think we're crazy, young lady!" he roared. "You can go to hell before we'll sign!"