Except for his felt hat that lay a little distance away, there was no sign of Whitey Mack; the huddled form of the man, who but a moment since had chuckled as he pocketed old Max Diestricht's gems, lay sprawled, inert, upon the floor, and Lannigan was staring into the muzzle of Jimmie Dale's automatic.
"Drop that gun, Lannigan!" said Jimmie Dale coolly.

"And I'll trouble you not to make a noise; it might attract attention from the street; there's been too much already.

DROP THAT GUN!" The revolver clattered from Lannigan's hand to the floor.

A step forward, and Jimmie Dale's toe sent it spinning under a bench.

Another step, and, his revolver still covering the other, he had whipped a pair of handcuffs from the officer's side pocket.
Lannigan, as though the thought had never occurred to him, offered no resistance.