"Come," said Hewitt, "more matches!" and he rushed to the door. It was fastened with a bar and padlock.
"Let me out, for God's sake!" came the voice, sick and hoarse, from the inside. "Let me out!"
"All right!" Hewitt shouted. "We have come for you. Wait a moment."
The voice sank into a sort of sobbing croon, and Hewitt tried several keys from his own bunch on the padlock. None fitted. He drew from his pocket the wire he had used for the bolt of the front door, straightened it out, and made a sharp bend at the end.
"Hold a match close," he ordered shortly, and one of the men obeyed. Three or four attempts were necessary, and several different bendings of the wire were effected, but in the end Hewitt picked the lock, and flung open the door.
From within a ghastly figure fell forward among them fainting, and knocked out the matches.
"Hullo!" cried Plummer. "Hold up! Who are you?"
"Let's get him up into the open," said Hewitt. "He can't tell you who he is for a bit, but I believe he's Laker."
"Laker! What, here?"