“A spy!” cried one of the others excitedly.
“We’re pinched!” exclaimed another.
The gang seemed ready to make a fight on the spot. Their hands sought hidden weapons. Snodgrass was uneasy, but he did not shrink or retreat, which was a very good thing for him. If he had betrayed signs of alarm just then he could not have escaped without broken bones. Instead, he calmly said:
“I am no spy, and the police are not behind me. I came here on business of importance, and my business is with Mr. Riley.”
Mr. Riley! That was odd enough. William Riley had been a shocker, but Mr. Riley was worse still. They looked at Snodgrass in doubt.
What sort of business could this man, this beardless chap, have with Buster Bill? Generally the man who hunted for Bill on the pretext of business carried a warrant and a pair of handcuffs.
“Well, why in thunder don’t yer come in?” demanded Bill himself.
Then Snodgrass entered, though he felt much more like making a dash to get out. He walked into the room with an assumed air of nonchalance.
Barely was he well into the room, however, when Buster Bill made one leap, slammed the door shut, and put his back against it.
“Well,” he said, as he faced round, “we’ve got ye now, anyhow!”