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."