So intently was he watching that man, in fact, that I saw my chance, and took it. I weighed it all over, with a frantic sort of deliberation, and then I got busy. I was able to creep up behind the man with the bag quite unobserved. I even reached out my hand and had my fingers clamped about the butt of that heavy and ugly-looking firearm before Bud had any knowledge of my intentions. And then it was too late. For I had the gun in my hand and had dodged back from the table before he could so much as lift a finger to interfere with me.
But he didn't even try to follow me. He blinked down at the opened bag, for a moment, and then he deliberately snapped it shut again. Then he stood blinking across the room at me. It wasn't antagonism I saw on his face. It wasn't even resentment. It was more a quiet and unemotional determination which disturbed me more than the blackest outburst of anger could have done. It made me in some way afraid of that sunken-eyed man with the club-bag in his hand.
"What are you going to do?" I demanded, holding the automatic up in front of me.
"Do you really want to know?" he inquired, as he turned his head and looked back at me slightly over his shoulder, for he had already rounded the table.
