Then, walking toward the table, he picked up the other weapon and emptied it of six cartridges, and put them in his pocket.
"It was loaded, after all," said he. "Very careless of me—eh—Parkins? Allow me to introduce you to one of our most valuable operatives—Mr. Parkins—Mr. Michael Curran. He says you have the best equipped sideboard in the city."
Parkins was dumfounded.
The trusted servant was an Updyke "plant," and his case now seemed hopeless. There was nothing to say, and his eyes sought the floor.
"Look up, and face the music," nagged the relentless Updyke. "A brave fellow like you who connives against young women and sickly fathers surely must be a courageous man! What were your real intentions toward that girl?" yelled the big fellow, pointing his finger at the wilted Parkins.
"I had no real plan," said he finally. "I was sober when I took her into my car, and I meant to keep sober. No man in his right mind would offer insult to an innocent girl."
"Is that so!—then why did you, absolutely sober, and after ten days in bed with a wounded scalp—kidnap her and start for Herman's Roadhouse?" snarled Updyke. "For the sake of counterfeiting respectability the name has been changed to fool decent people. It is called a social club—bah!"
"I—I—ah—or rather I should say—we were eloping—we were going to be married! She and I are engaged, and——"
"Stop right where you are! Now I want you to look me squarely in the eye and tell me that lie over again."
Updyke's lowering face at once took on the look of a demon. His right hand stole slowly under the left side of his coat and his eyes seemed to be turning green.