It had begun in a rumble of hoarse, undistinguishable words, and ended in the phrase that caught his ear.
“... he’s sold us, I tell ye! Put spies on us! He led us into the trap, curse him....”
He heard another voice speaking in a lower tone.
“What are we worth? You’re a fool! What d’ye think we’re worth? Ain’t we the ‘Borough Lot’? Don’t he know enough to hang two or three of us.... It’s Connor and his pal the lawyer....”
The “Borough Lot”!
The paralyzing intelligence came to Mr. Lane, and he held on to the bare mantelshelf for support. Spies! Suppose they discovered him, and mistook him for a spy! His hair rose at the thought. He knew them well enough by repute. Overmuch hero-worship had invested them with qualities for evil which they may or may not have possessed.
There might be a chance of escape. The tumult below continued. Scraps of angry talk came floating up.
Mr. Lane looked out of the window; the drop into the street was too long, and there was no sign of rope in the house.
Cautiously he opened the door of the room. The men were in the room beneath that in which he stood. The staircase that led to the street must take him past their door.
Mr. Lane was very anxious to leave the house. He had unwittingly stepped into a hornets’ nest, and wanted to make his escape without disturbing the inmates. Now was the time—or never. Whilst the angry argument continued a creaking stair board or so might not attract attention. But he made no allowance for the gifts of these men—gifts of sight and hearing. Bat Sands, in the midst of his tirade, saw the uplifted finger and head-jerk of Goyle. He did not check his flow of invective, but edged toward the door; then he stopped short, and flinging the door open, he caught the scared Mr. Lane by the throat, and dragging him into the room, threw him upon the ground and knelt on him.