In the dim light she could see the three Italians grappling with the other men. Baskinelli's voice called to her reassuringly. It might well. Baskinelli was in no danger.
She placed her softly clothed shoulder to the door and strove to break it. She screamed again.
"Harry! Harry!"
Dull crashes answered. There was the crack and cleaving of splintered wood.
"Hold on! I'm here!" she heard.
She fell beside the door. Strong arms seized her. For an instant she felt that she was saved. But she looked up into the lowering face of a man with tilted mustachios. From the wide thick lips came threats and curses.
From the outer passageway sounded the crashing of the doors.
She let herself be lifted, then, with sudden exertion of her trained strength, she broke the grasp of the man.
The door fell open.
Harry, bloody and tattered, stood there—alone.