"Sit down, Desmond," he
said, "and let's talk. Will you smoke?"
He held out his case. A cigarette was the one thing for which
Desmond craved. He took one and lit it. Strangwise sat down on
the other side of a curiously carved ebony table, his big
automatic before him.
"I guess you're sharp enough to know when you're beaten,
Desmond," he said. "You've put up a good fight and until this
afternoon you were one up on me. I'll grant you that. And I don't
mind admitting that you've busted up my little organization--for
the present at any rate. But I'm on top now and you're in our
power, old man."
"Well," replied Desmond shortly, "what are you going to do about
it?"
"I'm going to utilize my advantage to the best I know how,"
retorted Strangwise, snapping the words, "that's good strategy,
isn't it, Desmond? That's what Hamley and all the military
writers teach, isn't it? And I'm going to be frank with you. I
suppose you realize that your life hung by a thread in this very
room only a minute ago. Do you know why I intervened to save
you?"
Desmond smiled. All his habitual serenity was coming back to him.
He found it hard to realize that this old brother officer of his,
blowing rings of cigarette smoke at him across the table, was an
enemy.
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