" Gavegan slipped his
left arm through Larry's right. "You're comin' along with me, and
you'd better come quiet."
Larry stiffened. "Come where?"
"Headquarters."
"I haven't done a thing, Gavegan, and you know it! What do you want me
for?"
"Me and the Chief had a little talk about you," leered Gavegan. "And
now the Chief wants to have a little personal talk with you. He asked
me to round you up and bring you in."
"I've done nothing, and I'll not go!" Larry cried hotly.
"Oh, yes, you will!" Gavegan withdrew his right hand from his coat
pocket where it had been resting in readiness. In the hand, its thong
about his wrist, was a short leather-covered object filled with lead.
"I've got my orders, and you'll come peaceably, or--But I'd just as
soon you'd resist, for I owe you something for the punch you slipped
over on me the other night."
Larry, taut with the desire to strike, gazed for a moment into the
glowering face of the detective. Gavegan, gripping his right arm, with
that bone-crushing slug-shot itching for instant use, was apparently
master in the present circumstances. But before Larry's quick mind had
decided upon a course, the door of the pawnshop opened and closed, and
a voice said sharply:
"Nothing doing on that rough stuff, Gavegan!" The speaker was now on
Larry's left side, a heavy-faced man in a black derby.
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