Was this by accident or design? Percival knew not, but he took advantage of his still-pumping lungs to call to his final confederate.

“Damn the blades, Pound. Plug this cove.”

Pound rushed from his place of concealment and waved the barrel of his pistol around, searching for the mark. “Where are you, Garrick? Show yourself!”

By some device, Garrick appeared where he had not been a second before, his face pale in the stage lights, dark hair rippling over his shoulders.

“I am insulted by this attack on my home. Insulted, I say.”

“Quite yer jittering and stand still,” ordered Pound.

“That you may shoot me dead? An odd request. However, as you wish. Pull your blasted trigger, but take care—if you miss, I shall not.”

The cards were apparently all in Pound’s hands, but with his boss pegged to a target, he was nervous.

“Shoot him, man!” Percival urged. “A monkey could make the shot.”

Garrick spread his arms wide. “Make your shot, Scotsman. Unto dust.”

Pound blinked the sweat from his eyes, wondering how this job had turned into such a dog’s dinner.

“On yer knees, Garrick.”

“Oh, no, I kneel for no man.”

Percival strained against the knives that secured him. “Shoot him, Pound! Pull the trigger.”

“You are weak,” said Garrick mockingly. “A coward!”

Pound fired his pistol and a flute of blue smoke billowed from the barrel. The noise was deafening, and for a moment Garrick’s upper torso was wreathed in a flickering cloud.

When the smoke cleared, Garrick was revealed, hale and hardy, with no changes to his appearance but for the blood on his teeth and the bullet between them.

“Oh, my God,” breathed Pound. “He caught the bullet. This is no mortal man.”

“Shoot again, you fool!” cried Percival. “You hold a revolver in yer hand.”

Garrick spoke between his teeth. “One chance only. Now, you must stand still for my bullet.”

Pound was so confused that his feet were like anchors and tears streamed down his ruddy cheeks. “But you are without a pistol.”

Garrick rubbed his fingers before his mouth as though warming them, then spat out the bullet with such force that it penetrated Pound’s forehead and dropped him where he stood.

Percival realized then how deep in the mire he stood.

“Please, mister. We have cash in our pokes. Take it and let me go. I will be on the next boat to America.”

Garrick’s eyes held no hint of mercy. “I need the name of the man who pulls your strings.”

Percival ground his teeth. “I cannot. I swore an oath.”

“Aha, an oath,” said Garrick, meandering toward the massive target. “That in itself is a telltale sign.”

“I’ll say no more,” said Percival, stubbornly. “Do your worst, you devil.”