It might have gone hard with Mr. Lane but for the opportune arrival of the messenger. Bat went downstairs at the knock, and the rest stood quietly listening. They expected Connor, and when his voice did not sound on the stairs they looked at one another questioningly. Bat came into the room with a yellow envelope in his hand. He passed it to Goyle. Reading was not an accomplishment of his. Goyle read it with difficulty.
“Do the best you can,” he read. “I’m lying ‘doggo.’”
“What does that mean?” snarled Goyle, holding the message in his hand and looking at Bat. “Hidin’, is he—and we’ve got to do the best we can?”
Bat reached for his overcoat. He did not speak as he struggled into it, nor until he had buttoned it deliberately.
“It means—git,” he said shortly. “It means run, or else it means time, an’ worse than time.”
He swung round to the door.
“Connor’s hidin’,” he stopped to say. “When Connor starts hiding the place is getting hot. There’s nothing against me so far as I know, except——”
His eyes fell on the form of Mr. Lane. He had raised himself to a sitting position on the floor, and now, with disheveled hair and outstretched legs, he sat the picture of despair.
Goyle intercepted the glance.
“What about him?” he asked.