"Ah--I thought so!" he breathed, and shrank away.
"Kind of alters things, don't it?" enquired M'Ginnis, hoarse and
jeering. "Well, if you don't want it to go off, sit down an' write Hermy
as pretty a little note as you can--no, shut that window first."
Silent and speechless, Ravenslee crossed to the window and drew down the
sash, in doing which he noticed a dark something that crouched beneath
the sill.
"An' now," said M'Ginnis, leaning against a corner of the desk, "sit
down here, nice an' close, an' write that letter--there's pen an' ink
an' paper--an' quick about it or by--"
M'Ginnis sprang up and turned as the glass of the window splintered to
fragments, and, almost with the crash, Ravenslee leapt--a fierce twist,
a vicious wrench, and the deadly weapon had changed hands.
"Lucky it didn't go off," said Ravenslee, smiling grimly at the revolver
he held, "others might have heard, and, Mr. Flowers, I want to be alone
with you just a little longer. Of course, I might shoot you for the
murderous beast you are, or I might walk you over to the nearest police
depot for the crook I think you are--but--oh, well, of late I've been
yearning to get my hands on you and so"--Ravenslee turned and pitched
the revolver through the broken window.
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