He thought for a moment, with his hand on the doorknob. Then he turned back.
"You'd better keep this, then, until I find what we have to face, outside here!"
He passed into her hand the manila envelope, and stepped out into the hall.
A moment later she had secreted the packet, along with Pobloff's revolver, which she picked up from the floor. Then she ran to the door, and locked it. She would fight like a hornet, now, she inwardly vowed, for what she held.
Then she caught her breath, behind the locked door, for the sounds that crept in from the hallway told her that her fear had not been groundless.
She heard Durkin's little choked cry of pain and surprise, for he had been seized, she knew, and pinned back against the door. It was Pobloff's men, she told herself. They had him by the throat, she knew by the sound of the guttural oaths which they were trying to choke back. She could hear the kick and scrape of feet, the movement of his writhing and twisting body against the door, as on a sounding-board. She surmised that they had his arms held, otherwise he would surely have used his revolver. She was conscious of a sort of wild joy at the thought that he could not, for they were going through him, from the quieted sounds, pocket by pocket, and she knew he would have shot them if he could.
"There's nothing here!" said a voice in French. Frank, listening so close to them, could hear the three men breathe and pant.
"Then the woman has it!" answered the other voice, likewise in French.
"Shut up! She'll get on!" And Frank could hear them tear and haul at Durkin as they dragged him down the hall—just where, she could not distinguish.
She ran over to Keenan and shook him roughly. He looked at her a little stupidly, but did not seem able to respond to her entreaties.