“God knows!” the other replied, agitatedly. “What’s to be done?”
“Done? Nothing. Keep still, that’s all. Blow out that candle,” he commanded. Though he spoke very low his voice penetrated and Grey caught every word.
Again a heavy blow struck the door, repeated blows, accompanied by a demand:
“Ouvrez la porte!”
The voice was O’Hara’s. Grey recognised it with a thrill. He had returned with the revolver, and not finding him in his room had set out in search of him. But how, he wondered, could he have traced him here? And then he thought of the waiter he had seen in the passage, who had evidently recognised him. Yes, the waiter must have told.
Now Grey heard other voices outside. There was the shuffling, too, of many feet. Still, the men within made no sound. The candle had been extinguished and the darkness was intense.
The knocking became clamorous. There was a general ominous murmur like low growling thunder from the other side of the door.
Bang! bang! bang! resounded the blows.
“Open the door! Open at once or I’ll break it down,” O’Hara roared.
Grey’s enforced silence and inertia were maddening. He bit at his gag, contorted his mouth, tugged at his arms, but could accomplish nothing, beyond a wriggling change of position.