I was upstairs when he unpacked. And I noted among his belongings
a large, rather heavy automatic pistol. He nodded when I asked if
he was willing to use it in this case.
"Although"--unbuttoning his waistcoat--"I don't pin as much faith
to pistols as I used to.
"The Rhamda is, I'm convinced, the very cleverest proposition that
ever lived. He has means to handle practically anything in the way
of resistance." Jerome knew how the fellow had worsted Harry and
me. "I shouldn't wonder if he can read the mind to some extent; he
might be able to foresee that I was going to draw a gun, and beat
me to it with some new weapon of his own."
Having unbuttoned his waistcoat, Jerome then displayed a curious
contrivance mounted upon his breast. It consisted of a broad metal
plate, strapped across his shirt, and affixed to this plate was a
flat-springed arrangement for firing, simultaneously, the contents
of a revolver cylinder. To show how it worked, Jerome removed the
five cartridges and then faced me.
"Tell me to throw up my hands," directed he. I did so; his palms
flew into the air; and with a steely snap the mechanism was
released.
Had there been cartridges in it, I should have been riddled, for I
stood right in front. And I shuddered as I noted the small straps
around Jerome's wrists, running up his sleeves, so disposed that
the act of surrendering meant instant death to him who might
demand.
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