"Write as I dictate," he cried, placing a pen in the jailer's hand and a pistol to his ear. The first peg was torture. " "You have extradition papers?" "What sort of a detective do you think I am?" countered O'Higgins. It would surely be only common politeness to drop her a hint—a fellow countrywoman too. But she veiled her feelings. “It was the night you left Paris. Weeks hurled past, weeks that turned into months. He moved, after quiet intervals, with a quick little movement, and ever and again stroked his small mustache and coughed a selfconscious cough.
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