“Holland and Cheetham, you are wanted.”
“What for?”
“Wilde's affair. He has come to himself, and given us your names.”
On this the two men started up and were making for the door. Ransome whipped before it. “That won't do.”
Then there was a loud clatter of rising feet, oaths, threats, and even a knife or two drawn; and, in the midst of it all, the ominous click of a pistol, and then dead silence; for it was Ransome who had produced that weapon. “Come, no nonsense,” said he. “Door's guarded, street's guarded, and I'm not to be trifled with.”
He then handed his pistol to the officer outside with an order, and, stepping back suddenly, collared Messrs. Holland and Cheetham with one movement, and, with a powerful rush, carried them out of the house in his clutches. Meantime the policeman had whistled, there was a conflux of bobbies, and the culprits were handcuffed and marched off to the Town Hall.
“Five years' penal servitude for that little lot,” said Ransome.
“And now, Mr. Bolt, I have answered your question to the best of my ability.”
“You have answered it like a man. Will you do as much for us?”
“I'll do my best. Let me examine the place now that none of them are about.”