With a roar Clubfoot swung round. A large automatic was in his hand. His two companions had likewise drawn and covered Desmond Okewood, who, dapper and unruffled as ever, his hat on the back of his head, stood in the bedroom door, a brown paper parcel under his arm. Clubfoot laughed, a harsh and grating laugh. “Put your hands up, my friend!” he said menacingly. Desmond wavered. “But I shall drop my little parcel . . .” he began. “Put ’em up, zum Teufel nochmal!” roared the cripple, his tufted nostrils twitching with rage. Desmond hesitated for an instant. He shrugged his shoulders. “I’m sorry, Miss Maxwell,” he said. “If only Francis had been here . . .” And, pitching his parcel on the table, he slowly raised his hands above his head. “Keep him covered, Jungens!” cried Clubfoot and flung himself upon the parcel. “Francis, indeed!” he exclaimed. “He had an important telephone summons just now, didn’t he, Miss Maxwell?” And he chuckled noisily. But the American did not heed him. With a pink flush on her cheeks she was staring fixedly at Desmond. The young man sought to avoid her gaze. “It’s three to one,” he muttered, abashed. “I’d no idea they’d be able to get in here! I should never have brought it back if I’d dreamed of . . . this!” But now, with a shout of joy, Clubfoot had drawn from its paper wrapping the ikon with its blackened silver sheath. With a rapid motion he thrust the little picture into the capacious pocket of his overcoat. Then he turned to Desmond. “Lieber junger Herr”—he spoke in German now—“if on this occasion I should neglect to settle the debt which has for so long been outstanding between us, believe me it is because other considerations take precedence. Do not delude yourself, however! When I want you, I have only to stretch out my hand”—he raised his long prehensile arm with clutching fingers—“and crush you like an egg! Heinrich, Max, vorwärts! Miss Maxwell! Ich habe die Ehre!” He broke into English. “It would have been wiser to have accepted my offer of this morning, or, better still, from this poor Süsslein’s point of view, to have listened to reason last night!” He bowed to the American and, with head erect, stumped out into the hall. Hardly had the door closed upon him than Patricia Maxwell turned on Desmond. “You . . . you quitter!” she exclaimed with withering contempt in her voice. “Are you going to let him beat you to it all along the line? Are there no _men_ in this town?” But Desmond held up his hand. He had altogether discarded his rather abashed air. Now his eyes sparkled and a little smile played about his lips. “Give me five minutes’ grace,” he said, “and I’ll explain everything!” “There’s nothing to explain!” cried Patricia hotly. “He’s got my ikon, hasn’t he? What’s there to explain about that, I’d like to know!” But Desmond Okewood had dashed out into the hall. She heard him rattling loudly at the front door. In a moment he was back in the sitting-room.