“Excellent!” he pronounced. “Really excellent. With a little assistance from our friend Meekins, you, I am sure, Sarson, will now be able to climb up and let down the steps.”
Doctor Sarson stood by Mr. Fentolin’s chair, and together they looked up through the fragments of the trap-door. Meekins was still breathing heavily. Suddenly they heard the sound of a sharp report, as of a door above being slammed.
“Some one was in the boat-house when I broke the trap-door,” Meekins muttered. “I heard them moving about.”
Mr. Fentolin frowned.
“Then let us hurry,” he said. “Sarson, what about your patient?”
Mr. Dunster was lying upon his side, watching them. The doctor went over to the bedside and felt his pulse and head.
“He will do for twelve hours,” he pronounced. “If you think that other little operation—”
He broke off and looked at Mr. Fentolin meaningly. The man on the bed shrank back, his eyes lit with horror. Mr. Fentolin smiled pleasantly.
“I fear,” he said, “that we must not stay for that just now. A little later on, perhaps, if it becomes necessary. Let us first attend to the business on hand.”
Meekins once more clambered on to the little heap of furniture. The doctor stood by his side for a moment. Then, with an effort, he was hoisted up until he could catch hold of the floor of the outhouse. Meekins gave one push, and he disappeared.