“Very good. Sit down, Mr. Donovan.” Murdock pointed to the only vacant chair. It was directly in front of him, and scarce three feet away. He sat with his imposing figure bowed slightly forward, with his hands spread on his knees. He had spoken agreeably, but his voice had a hard ring and his eyes a shifty gleam that further put Chick on his guard. He sat down, as directed, replying respectfully: “Thank you, sir. I’ll answer any questions you ask.” “Very good,” said Murdock. “Finley tells me you are out of work and came from Chicago.” “I did, sir.” “What were you doing there?” “I worked in a hardware store.” “Are you handy with tools?” “Quite so,” Chick nodded, wondering how the situation would turn. “I have worked as a carpenter at times, though I never learned the trade.” “You don’t look like a man accustomed to hard work,” said Murdock, smiling through his heavy beard. “I’ve done my share, sir, for all that.” “Let’s see your palms. They will tell the story.” Chick hesitated for only the hundredth part of a second. He now knew what was coming, that the rascal suspected he was gripping a weapon in his side pocket, of which he aimed to make him let go. Chick reasoned on the instant, too, that he was up against desperate odds, that his best move would be to yield to the rascals temporarily, biding his own time to discover their entire game and to turn the tables on them. All this really was no more than he had expected and designed, when he boldly entered the place in spite of the risks involved. Chick hesitated only for an instant, therefore, and then extended both hands and displayed his palms, as directed. As quick as a flash, bending forward from the table on which he was seated, Bart Bailey clapped the muzzle of a revolver to the detective’s head. “Don’t move!” he commanded, with sudden sharp ferocity. “Keep them there, or you’ll be a dead one. We want your hands where we can see them.” Chick dropped them on his knees and drew up in his chair. Without so much as a glance at Bailey, and apparently not the least disturbed by his weapon, he gazed at Murdock and asked coolly: “What’s the meaning of this? What’s it all about?” Murdock’s eyes took on a more venomous gleam and glitter, his voice a more threatening ring. “You know what’s it all about,” he said sternly. “If you stir foot or finger, you’ll get all that Finley has threatened. You are playing a tricky game and a dangerous one, for it cuts no ice with us. We know you, Carter, and are out to get you--as you’re out to get us!” Chick coolly removed his disguise and tossed it upon the table. “That being the case, Mr. Murdock, I’ll sail under true colors,” he said curtly. “You may as well,” Murdock rejoined, with a sneer. “But don’t get gay, Carter, or you’ll pay the price. Keep your hands on your knees.” “Don’t be alarmed,” Chick retorted. “I’m not inviting a bullet by opposing you. Do what you like.”