The library was very still. There was no sound except for the
solemn ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece or the occasional
rustle of the evening paper in Mortimer's hand as he stood in
front of the fire. Desmond was sitting on the settee, tranquilly
smoking, studying Mortimer and thinking out the problem before
him.
He measured Mortimer with his eye. The latter was a bigger man
than Desmond in every way and Desmond suspected that he was even
stronger than he looked. Desmond wondered whether he should try
and overpower him then and there. The other was almost certain to
carry a revolver, he thought, while he was unarmed. Failure, he
knew, would ruin everything. The gang would disperse to the four
winds of heaven while as for Mr. Bellward--well, he would
certainly be "for it," as the soldiers say.
No, he must hold his hand until the meeting had taken place. This
was the first conference that Mortimer had summoned, and Desmond
intended to see that it should be the last. But first he meant to
find out all there was to know about the working of the gang.
He resolved to wait and see what the evening would bring forth.
The telephone was "a washout": the motor-cycle was now his only
chance to summon aid for he knew it was hopeless to think of
tackling single-handed odds of four to one (to say nothing of the
lady in the case).
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