Orme moved toward the window slowly, watching the opening through which Arima had disappeared. He got half-way to the window; three more steps would bring him to the sill. And then, without warning, Arima leaped into the room. Even in that moment Orme caught a glimpse of a mirror in the farther room, and knew that the Japanese had seen his reflection.
At this instant another man appeared, close behind Arima. A bandage was wrapped around his head. It was Maku, who presumably had been in the apartment all the time.
Orme stood little chance of overcoming the two. Quick as cats, with muscles like steel springs and a great variety of scientific tricks of offense and defense, they could handle him as they willed in a direct encounter. If Orme had had a revolver, he would now have drawn it. Yet he knew that this was not a case for fire-arms. Obviously, if he used a dangerous weapon in these men’s rooms and was afterward caught, it would fare hard with him, for the real facts would be suppressed and he would be sentenced as an ordinary housebreaker, perhaps with some clemency due to his personal standing.
A quick intuition told him that he would not escape lightly if they fairly got their hands on him. The two Japanese had hitherto shown much patience with him. Their desire seemed to have been to avoid hurting him any more than was necessary. But there is a limit to Japanese patience. The scathing words of the Japanese minister must still be burning in Arima’s brain. And Maku, who had controlled himself while Orme was following him through the streets of the North Side, no longer had a diplomatic reason for restraining his rage against the man who had struck him down. In any event, the eyes of Arima and Maku glittered angrily, and Orme realized that he could expect no mercy.
He caught up a chair and raised it over his head, prepared to bring it down on Arima, who was only a few feet from him and coming fast.
The Japanese raised his arms, to fend the expected blow. With sudden inspiration, Orme hurled the chair at his opponent’s feet. There was a crash. Arima sprawled headlong. Maku, who was close behind, tried to leap over Arima, but his feet went through the rungs of the chair, and he, too, crashed to the floor.
As he threw the chair Orme leaped back. Before the Japanese could get out of their tangle, he had jumped over the window-sill and was running up the fire-escape. Madame Alia, was at her window, a look of startled inquiry on her face. She stepped back as he crowded into the room.
“Quick!” he said. “They’ll be after me. Hide me somewhere.”
“Come!” She took his sleeve and pulled him to a corner. There she pushed aside the dingy hanging and Orme saw that the wall was covered with a wainscoting that ran from floor to ceiling.
The medium looked at him with bright eyes. “You’re the real sort,” she whispered, and a wave of color in her cheeks brought back the suggestion of girlish beauty. “I saw that scrap there through a hole in the floor. You’re the goods.” She pressed his arm almost affectionately, then, with her free hand, she pushed against the paneling. Noiselessly a section of it turned inward, disclosing a dark cavity. “Get in!”