The grave-faced young Tennessean thrust out his jaw. “What you say goes as she lays,” he returned, and thereupon he showed them the way upstairs.
At the stair-head there was a guard, a bullet-headed ring-fighter posing as a waiter, with a square patch of an apron and a napkin thrown over one arm.
“Mr. Maxwell’s lookin’ for one of his men,” said Tarbell, realizing that some sort of an excuse must be offered; and the ring-fighter, who knew the railroad superintendent by sight, nodded and said:
“That’s aw right; who is ut?”
“Harvey Calmaine,” said Tarbell, giving the first name that came into his head.
To the astoundment of at least two of the three, the bullet-headed guard stood aside and pointed to a door at the farther end of the upper hall.
“He’s in there,” he grunted. “Somebody’s been givin’ him th’ knock-out drops, an’ they’re workin’ over him.” Then he spun around and put a ham-like hand flat against Maxwell’s chest. “Ye’ll gimme yer wor-rd, Misther Maxwell, that ye haven’t got the sheriff’s posse at yer back?”
“No,” said Maxwell, and he managed to say it with a degree of coolness which he was very far from feeling. “We’re all here; all there are of us.”
“Aw right; gwan in. But there’ll be no scrappin’, mind ye. If there does be anny, I’ll be takin’ a hand, meself.”
Sprague took the lead in the silent march to the indicated door, his big bulk looming colossal in the narrow, low-studded hallway. Reaching the door, he turned the knob noiselessly. “Locked,” he muttered, and then he drew back and put his shoulder to it.