“What the devil does that mean?” Jarvis demanded.
“The boy knows,” laughed Sam in a singularly changed voice. “He heard the whistle, and he is not the only one. Mr. Jarvis, the police are at your door. Listen! They are in this house now.”
“A thousand furies!” snarled the astonished man. “What have you done?”
“I opened the door for them![them!]”
“You—you opened the door? Why, you fool! You will go to prison yourself—you and your dog of a pal here!”
“Perhaps he will go,” said Sam; “but not I. They are not looking for me.”
“Not looking for you? Who are you?”
Like a flash the false beard was torn from the face of the man who had given the signal whistle, and at the same time he cried:
“I am Frank Merriwell! Surrender, both of you, for you are trapped and cannot escape!”
Even as he uttered these words, mingled with the distant wailing of the violin came the sound of rushing feet. Behind him appeared several men, one of them wearing a long, dark overcoat and a wide-brimmed hat.