"Black George" spoke at last.
"My dear Mr. Temple," he said, "perhaps we may get some of your money, too, before we finish with you. But that isn't our first object."
Turning to their attendant he commanded:
"Bring some chairs and then leave us."
Silently but swiftly, the man brought lacquered stools without back supports, placed one behind each of the four, then lifted the hangings and disappeared.
"Sit down," said "Black George" in a suave voice, "and let us talk things over."
They complied.
"I hope," said "Black George," "that my men did not handle you roughly.
They had instructions not to, and if they disobeyed they shall be punished."
"Come, come," said Mr. Temple, "drop this note of hospitality and come to the point. We are prisoners, we have been foully entrapped. What is your object?"
Dropping something of his suavity and letting more of his true character show, "Black George" leaned forward.
"I think you know, Mr. Temple," He said, "my reason for bringing you here."
"What do you mean?"
Mr. Temple was determined to maintain an attitude of outraged innocence.
"I mean," said the other, his voice growing more harsh, "that you have been meddling in matters that did not concern you."
"Explain."
"Your young men"-with a sweep of the hand that indicated the three chums-"overheard words not intended for their ears on the Flyer from the East. They sat on the observation platform while I was in conversation with a companion."
"Well?"
"No, it's far from well," said the other menacingly. "You called Inspector Burton to your apartment at the Palace."
He paused and looked fixedly at Mr. Temple.
"Now," he resumed, "I want to know just how much of my conversation these boys overheard, and just what they told Inspector Burton."
Further pretence of innocence was useless.
"And if we refuse to tell?" queried Mr. Temple.
"Black George" grinned evilly. He looked long at Mr. Temple and the boys in turn. Then he addressed the silent old Chinaman.
"Would your men like to play with them?" he asked.
"Um."
"Would they like to torture those young boys?"
"Um."
"Would they like to apply the water cure and the red-hot needles?"
"Um."
"And pull out fingernails?"
"Um."
The old Chinaman never changed expression.
In spite of their courageous spirits, the boys shivered. Mr. Temple thought only of the boys, not of himself. Would these scoundrels really torture them? It was unbelievable. Yet if they should--
"Look here," he said gruffly, "quit this nonsense. This is the twentieth century, and such things are not done. We are not children to be frightened by such talk."
"Ah," said "Black George" smoothly, "but this is San Francisco's Chinatown. Don't forget that. You probably thought it was not possible to trap you, either. But you notice it was done. Your presence here ought to be sufficient indication to you that torture is not impossible."
"You, scoundrel," blazed Mr. Temple, "you'll pay for this. Others know where I have gone. My original guide from the restaurant is waiting for me, and--"
"One of my men," said "Black George" succinctly. "And your chauffeur, too."
"Well and good, but the head waiter at the restaurant has my name and--"
"My man, too," said "Black George." He rose suddenly, walked close to Mr. Temple, and leaned over and glared into his face.
"Furthermore," he added, "supposing you get out of this scrape, don't try to make trouble for them. My agents don't know all I do, but I protect the men useful to me. Understand?"
As Mr. Temple kept silence, controlling his features, but in reality sore at heart, "Black George" started to move backward slowly.
Suddenly big Bob, who all the time had been quietly working his hands free from the hastily tied bonds, leaped upon him. Bob's hands went around the other's throat, throttling him and preventing him from crying out.
At the same moment, Frank and Jack, who also had been working at their bonds and with equal success, leaped for the old Chinaman. The latter moved with surprising swiftness for one of his age. Springing from the chair, he waved a long dagger which mysteriously appeared in his talon-like hand and began to shout a shrill jabber of Chinese words.
Jack leaped in low, arms extended, making a flying tackle as he so often had done on the football field at Harrington Hall Military Academy. The old Chinaman started to move backward, waving his dagger.
Frank swung the lacquered stool upon which he had been seated aloft and sent it hurtling through the air. His aim was deadly. The heavy stool caught the Chinaman square on the side of the head, just as Jack pinned him around the knees.
He went down like a log, his dagger clattering to the floor.
CHAPTER VIII
CHINATOWN WINS