“Get busy, I tell you!”

Evidently the prisoner was obstinate.

Minute after minute the short man labored with the captive, the snarl in his insisting voice deepening into the diapason of malevolent threat.

But Britt said no word.

Vaniman, feeling that all the prospects of his life were at stake, decided to play a waiting game.  In spite of their culpable motive, the men outside were serving as his aides in the crucial moment.  They were demanding information which the usurer owed to the innocent.

“Oh, very well,” said the master of ceremonies.  “We’ll go on with the rest of the program, then.  One of you bring that side lamp and light it.  And help me get this towel tighter.  He’s going to try some squalling.”

Vaniman saw the flare of the lamp past the edge of the flap.  He set his teeth and decided that he would not interfere.  When he heard sounds which, muffled in the towel, were like the whines and grunts of a tortured animal, he stiffened his determination to await the issue.

“Now loosen the gag and let him talk!  I reckon he has found something to say.”

Vaniman heard louder groans.  But Britt gave out no information.

“Back with the talk-tickler!  Hold it closer!  The same foot!  We’ve got a good start on that one.”

The man in the van felt his gorge rising, in spite of the fact that the victim was a relentless persecutor of others.  The stifled accents of agony were dreadful.

After a time the short man spoke.  Into three words he put the venom of a malice that would not be gainsaid.  “Now, damn you!” His tone hinted at no regret for what had gone on before; it suggested that there was more to come; it was compelling demand that the captive should employ the respite that was offered.

Britt began to babble; there was a suggestion of partial mania in his tones.  Vaniman could not understand what he was saying, but the sharp questions that were interjected by the manager of the affair—­the queries that gimleted for additional information—­suggested the line of confession that Britt was giving forth.

“Yes—­in the bank!  Where in the bank? . . .  I heard that, but where? . . .  In the basement, hey?  Well, where in the basement? . . .  Concrete block hey? . . .  Come across! . . .  Along here with that lamp, bo! . . .  Exactly where is that block?”

Through Vaniman there flooded something that was almost a delirium of derring do.  He did not know just what he would be able to perform—­one against three.  He did not dare to wait for any farther developments in the thing.  He was possessed by the frantic fear that the knaves would use their information and beat him to the treasure.  That the money was somewhere in the basement of Britt Block was enough for him at that juncture.  He decided that the time for stealth was past.  He would proclaim the news.  He would tell his story.  He would trust the case to the fair judgment of men.