Bending over the desk, without removing her gaze from the adventurer, his captor groped for, found, and pressed a call-button.
From some remote quarter of the house sounded the grumble of an electric bell.
"Pity you're so brazen," she observed. "Just a little less side, and you'd be a rather engaging person!"
Lanyard made no reply. In fact he wasn't listening.
Under the strain of that suspense, the iron control which had always been his was breaking down—since now it was for another he was concerned. And he wasted no strength trying to enforce it. The stress of his anxiety was both undisguised and undisguisable. Nor did Madame Omber overlook it.
"What's the trouble, eh? Is it that already you hear the cell door clang in your ears?"
As she spoke, Lanyard left his chair with a movement in the execution of which all his wits co-operated, with a spring as lithe and sure and swift as an animal's, that carried him like a shot across the two yards or so between them.
The slightest error in his reckoning would have finished him: for the other had been watching for just such a move, and the revolver was nearly level with Lanyard's head when he grasped it by the barrel, turned that to the ceiling, imprisoned the woman's wrist with his other hand, and in two movements had captured the weapon without injuring its owner.
"Don't be alarmed," he said quietly. "I'm not going to do anything more violent than to put this weapon out of commission."
