"Did you do so? Then all the bettaire. I think we shall persuade him.
Do not venture to move, young man; I shoot veree willingly."
And Neeland, looking at him along the blunt barrel of the automatic
pistol, was inclined to believe him.
His sensations were not agreeable; he managed to maintain a calm
exterior; choke back the hot chagrin that reddened his face to the
temples; and cast a half humorous, half contemptuous glance at Ilse
Dumont.
"You prove true, don't you?" he said coolly. "--True to your trade of
story-telling, Scheherazade!"
"I knew--nothing--of this!" she stammered.
But Neeland only laughed disagreeably.
Then the door opened again softly, and Golden Beard came in without
his crutches.