Standing’s right hand was behind him, and Bat heard the key turn in the lock of the door.  He waited.  But the trapped agent never opened his lips.

Idepski had seen Standing and the other down at the quay-side.  He had left them there when he started up the hill.  Yet—­A bitter fury was driving him.  He realised the trap that had been laid.  He realised something of the deadly purpose lying behind it.  So he remained silent under the scourge that was intended to hurt.

For all the filthy dungarees tucked into the clumsy legs of high leather sea boots, the dirty-coloured handkerchief knotted about his neck, the curious napless cloth cap with its peak pulled down over one eye, that curious cap which seems to be worn by no one else in the world but seafaring men, it was easy enough for Bat to visualise the dapper picture, that other picture of Walter Idepski that Standing had described.  The man possessed a well-knit, sinuous figure which his dungarees could not disguise.  His alert eyes were good-looking.  And, cleaned of the black, stubbly growth of beard and whisker, an amazing transformation in his looks would surely have been achieved.  But Bat’s interest was less with these things than with the possible reaction the man might contemplate.

For the moment, however, the situation was entirely dominated by Standing, who displayed no sign of relaxing his hold upon it.  He flung out a pointing hand, and Bat saw it was grasping the door key.

“You’d best take that chair, Idepski,” he ordered.  “You’ve opened war on me, but there’s no need to keep you standing for it.  You’ll take that seat against my writing table.  But first, Bat, here, is going to relieve you of the useless weapons I see you’ve got on you.  Get those, Bat!  There’s a gun and a sheath knife, and they’re clumsily showing their shape under his dungarees.”

It was the word the mill-manager had awaited.  He was on his feet in an instant.  Idepski stirred to action.  He turned to meet him.

“Keep your darn hands off!” he cried fiercely.  “By—­”

His hand had flown to his hip.  But he was given no time.  Bat was on him like an avalanche, an avalanche of furious purpose.  The fighting spirit in him yearned, and in a moment his victim was caught up in a crushing embrace.  There was a short, fierce struggle.  But Idepski was no match for the super lumber-jack.

While Bat held on, the tenacious hands of Standing tore the weapons he had discovered from their hiding places.  Then in a moment Idepski found himself sprawling in the chair he had been invited to take.

Standing’s appreciation was evident as he watched the man draw a gold cigarette case from the breast pocket of his overalls as though nothing had occurred.  It was an act of studied coolness that did not for a moment deceive, but it pleased.  However, his next effrontery pleased the mill-owner still more.

“Say, boys,” Idepski observed quietly, as he opened the case and extracted a cigarette.  “I guess I’m kind o’ glad you left me this.  But I don’t figger you’re out for loot, anyway.”  Then he glanced up at the man watching him so interestedly.  “Maybe you’ll oblige me with a light,” he demanded, and cocked up the cigarette he had thrust between his lips with an exaggerated impertinence.