“I don’t suppose they’re anybody important,” grumbled the other.
In his youth Elk had played football; and, measuring the distance as best he could, he dropped suddenly and tackled low. The man struck the earth with a jerk which knocked all the breath out of his body and made him incapable of any other sound than the involuntary gasp which followed his knock-out. In a second Elk was on him, his bony knee on the man’s throat.
“Pray, Frog,” he whispered in the man’s ear, “but don’t shout!”
The stricken man was incapable of shouting, and was still breathless when willing hands threw him into the patrol wagon.
“We’ll have to go the back way, boys,” said Elk in a whisper.
This time his task was facilitated by the fact that the garden gate was not locked. The door into the scullery was, however, but there was a window, the catch of which Elk forced noiselessly. He had pulled off his boots and was in his stockinged feet, and he sidled along the darkened passage. Apparently none of the dilapidated furniture had been removed from the house, for he felt the small table that had stood in the hall on his last visit. Gently turning the handle of Maitland’s room, he pushed.
The door was open, the room in darkness and empty. Elk came back to the scullery.
“There’s nobody here on the ground floor,” he said. “We’ll try upstairs.”
He was half-way up when he heard the murmur of voices and stopped. Raising his eyes to the level of the floor, he saw a crack of light under the doorway of the front room—the apartment which had been occupied by Maitland’s housekeeper. He listened, but could distinguish no consecutive words. Then, with a bound, he took the remaining stairs in three strides, flew along the landing, and flung himself upon the door. It was locked. At the sound of his footsteps the light inside went out. Twice he threw himself with all his weight at the frail door, and at the third attempt it crashed in.
“Hands up, everybody!” he shouted.