Frank caught the table, tipped it on its side, placed a foot on one leg, grasped another, and then gave a wrench.
The leg was torn away, and the boy held a terrible weapon in his hand. With this he whirled toward the two men, lifted it, and brought it down on Luptus’ head.
That blow was enough.
The mute dropped to the floor, and Frank caught the detective’s swaying form in his arms, keeping him from falling also.
“Brace up, Irons, if that’s your right name!” panted Frank. “It’s our only show. We must get out of here before the other two return with more of their kind.”
The man caught his breath with a fierce gasping sound, rolled his eyes toward the boy, and then fell over limply.
“It’s no use,” muttered Frank. “He’s done up. I’ll have to get him out. Can I do it?”
He could try, and this he was ready enough to do.
He dragged the helpless man toward the door. As he was about to turn the key in the lock, a thought came to him.
What if Linton and Glanworth were waiting outside? What if they were to see him coming out bearing the limp body of the detective?