12. THE STRANGE BARGAIN

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      Ronicky drew his gun and waited. “Good,” said the man of the sneer. “Go ahead.”

      “It was down in the cellar that we found the first tracks. He came in through the side window and closed it after him.”

      “That dropped him into the coal bin. Did he get coal dust on his shoes?”

      “Right; and he didn’t have sense enough to wipe it off.”

      “An amateur—a rank amateur! I told you!” said the man of the sneer, with satisfaction. “You followed his trail?”

      “Up the stairs to the kitchen and down the hall and up to Harry’s room.”

      “We already knew he’d gone there.”

      “But he left that room again and came down the hall.”

      “Yes. The coal dust was pretty well wiped off by that time, but we held a light close to the carpet and got the signs of it.”

      “And where did it lead?”

      “Right to this room!”

      Ronicky stepped from among the smooth silks and pressed close to the door of the closet, his hand on the knob. The time had almost come for one desperate attempt to escape, and he was ready to shoot to kill.

      A moment of pause had come, a pause which, in the imagination of Ronicky, was filled with the approach of both the men toward the door of the closet.

      Then the man of the sneer said: “That’s a likely story!”

      “I can show you the tracks.”

      “H’m! You fool, they simply grew dim when they got to this door. I’ve been here for some time. Go back and tell them to hunt some more. Go up to the attic and search there. That’s the place an amateur would most likely hide.”

      The man growled some retort and left, closing the door heavily behind him, while Ronicky Doone breathed freely again for the first time.

      “Now,” said the man of the sneer, “tell me the whole of it, Ruth.”

      Ronicky set his teeth. Had the clever devil guessed at the truth so easily? Had he sent his follower away, merely to avoid having it known that a man had taken shelter in the room of the girl he loved?

      “Go on,” the leader was repeating. “Let me hear the whole truth.”

      “I—I—” stammered the girl, and she could say no more.

      The man of the sneer laughed unpleasantly. “Let me help you. It was somebody you met somewhere—on the train, perhaps, and you couldn’t help smiling at him, eh? You smiled so much, in fact, that he followed you and found that you had come here. The only way he could get in was by stealth. Is that right? So he came in exactly that way, like a robber, but really only to keep a tryst with his lady love? A pretty story, a true romance! I begin to see why you find me such a dull fellow, my dear girl.”

      “John—” began Ruth Tolliver, her voice shaking.

      “Tush,” he broke in as smoothly as ever. “Let me tell the story for you and spare your blushes. When I sent you for Harry Morgan you found Lochinvar in the very act of slugging the poor fellow. You helped him tie Morgan; then you took him here to your room; although you were glad to see him, you warned him that it was dangerous to play with fire—fire being me. Do I gather the drift of the story fairly well? Finally you have him worked up to the right pitch. He is convinced that a retreat would be advantageous, if possible. You show him that it is possible. You point out the ledge under your window and the easy way of working to the ground. Eh?”

      “Yes,” said the girl unevenly. “That is—”

      “Ah!” murmured the man of the sneer. “You seem rather relieved that I have guessed he left the house. In that case—”

      Ronicky Doone had held the latch of the door turned back for some time. Now he pushed it open and stepped out. He was only barely in time, for the man of the sneer was turning quickly in his direction, since there was only one hiding place in the room.

      He was brought up with a shock by the sight of Ronicky’s big Colt, held at the hip and covering him with absolute certainty. Ruth Tolliver did not cry out, but every muscle in her face and body seemed to contract, as if she were preparing herself for the explosion.

      “You don’t have to put up your hands,” said Ronicky Doone, wondering at the familiarity of the face of the man of the sneer. He had brooded on it so often in the past few days that it was like the face of an old acquaintance. He knew every line in that sharp profile.

      “Thank you,” responded the leader, and, turning to the girl, he said coldly: “I congratulate you on your good taste. A regular Apollo, my dear Ruth.”

      He turned back to Ronicky Doone. “And I suppose you have overhead our entire conversation?”

      “The whole lot of it,” said Ronicky, “though I wasn’t playing my hand at eavesdropping. I couldn’t help hearing you, partner.”

      The man of the sneer looked him over leisurely. “Western,” he said at last, “decidedly Western.

      “Are you staying long in the East, my friend?”

      “I dunno,” said Ronicky Doone, smiling faintly at the coolness of the other. “What do you think about it?”

      “Meaning that I’m liable to put an end to your stay?”

      “Maybe!”

      “Tush, tush! I suppose Ruth has filled your head with a lot of rot about what a terrible fellow I am. But I don’t use poison, and I don’t kill with mysterious X-rays. I am, as you see, a very quiet and ordinary sort.”

      Ronicky Doone smiled again. “You just oblige me, partner,” he replied in his own soft voice. “Just stay away from the walls of the room—don’t even sit down. Stand right where you are.”

      “You’d murder me if I took another step?” asked the man of the sneer, and a contemptuous and sardonic expression flitted across his face for the first time.

      “I’d sure blow you full of lead,” said Ronicky fervently. “I’d kill you like a snake, stranger, which I mostly think you are. So step light, and step quick when I talk.”

      “Certainly,” said the other, bowing. “I am entirely at your service.” He turned a little to Ruth. “I see that you have a most determined cavalier. I suppose he’ll instantly abduct you and sweep you away from beneath my eyes?”

      She made a vague gesture of denial.

      “Go ahead,” said the leader. “By the way, my name is John Mark.”

      “I’m Doone—some call me Ronicky Doone.”

      “I’m glad to know you, Ronicky Doone. I imagine that name fits you. Now tell me the story of why you came to this house; of course it wasn’t to see a girl!”

      “You’re wrong! It was.”

      “Ah?” In spite of himself the face of John Mark wrinkled with pain and suspicious rage.

      “I came to